Before Forever After
by Gadfly
Summary: As the title implies, this work concentrates on incidents leading up to the scenario that Shrek encounters in "Shrek Forever After" in an alternate reality where Shrek was never born.
1. Yet Another Knight in the Castle

**Before Forever After**

**By Gadfly**

**Introduction**

As the title implies, this work concentrates on incidents leading up to the scenario that Shrek encounters in _Shrek Forever After_ in an alternate reality where Shrek was never born.

**Copyright Notice**

Characters, places and situations from the motion pictures _Shrek, Shrek 2, Shrek the Third,_ and _Shrek Forever After_ belong to DreamWorks. They are used here with affection but, alas, without permission.

**Layer 1: Yet Another Knight in the Castle**

The lovely Princess Fiona of the Kingdom of Far Far Away was in the midst of a beauty nap when she was jolted awake as something large and heavy crashed through the stone ceiling of her tower room cell. She bolted upright into a sitting position on her bed, wondering if the castle had come under siege, when she saw, laying on the floor amidst rocky debris, the back of a tall, broad figure, wearing the helmet and armguards of a knight and some exotic reptilian skin vest – perhaps from some dragon he'd slain! Dazed but amazingly still conscious, he shook his head and then very slowly began pushing himself up.

Ignoring questions of logic – logic being one luxury she could not afford just then – Fiona felt a surge of real hope. Could this be him? Her rescuer? _Finally_, after all these years of being locked in the highest room of the tallest tower of this dragon-beset castle? His startling entrance was certainly…unorthodox, but he had come far further than any of the many other would-be Prince Charmings ever had. As the knight took a moment to recollect himself, his back to her, Fiona also took a moment to hold her hand up to her face – a human hand, thank God – and test her breath. Good enough. But now…she had to set up _the_ moment! She lay back down and made sure her gold-trimmed green felt dress was straightened against her petite waist. Perfect. She began to close her eyes and thought of a final touch. Stealing a glimpse to make sure the knight had not yet turned around, she grabbed the flowers from a vase beside the bed and clutched them against her bosom. She couldn't resist taking one more quick glance at her visitor while he was still looking away – he really did appear tall and muscular if somewhat overweight – and then she lay her head back, closed her eyes, and pretended she was asleep. Just like in the storybooks she had read over and over and over again: the princess awaiting the kiss that would awaken her and break her curse. It was what Fiona had been waiting for oh, so many long, lonely years. Finally, it was real! She tried to keep her breath slow and even, despite the pounding of her heart, as she heard the heavy footsteps of her rescuer slowly approaching. Then she sensed him, hovering above, no doubt gazing down upon her red-haired beauty, her gold tiara glinting in the torchlight. Any moment now: the kiss. The kiss that would end the curse. The kiss that would begin her happily ever after. But why did he hesitate? Was he that overcome by her comeliness? Then she sensed him drawing closer. Nearer. She could barely contain herself. Her heart raced even faster. She fought to keep her eyes closed, but her lipped puckered in anticipation. And then—

Fiona opened her eyes and sat up in her bed with a gasp. She looked around at her still, dark tower room cell. She was alone! She looked up at the still-intact stone ceiling. Then she shook her head in bewilderment. God, was it just a dream? It had felt so real! _Never_ had Fiona had a dream that felt so real! But…obviously it was not. So close! So _very_ close! The sweet victory that she had tasted on her tongue now turned to chalk. She buried her face in her hands and wept. The despair that she fought so hard to keep at bay now threatened to overwhelm her. The dream had seemed so very real. _Too_ real. Too real because…it wasn't a dream! It was a _vision_! Yes, that was it, Fiona told herself. She had been granted a vision because…because her rescue was imminent! Yes, of course! The fates were preparing her for the final rescue, the rescue that would drop in like a bolt from the blue! Yes, that was the symbolism! It would be soon! Maybe even…maybe even today! Fiona struggled to retrieve her faded hope, to reinvigorate it with her interpretation. "I know it will be soon," she said aloud. "I know…it's today!" She arose, glided to her lone window, and looked out. The courtyard of her island-castle showed no one, nor was anyone to be seen on the other side of the boiling moat of lava that surrounded the keep. She did her best then to look out over the jagged edge of the volcanic cone that fenced in her hated abode and across the devastated landscape beyond, despite the dimness cast by the ever-present volcanic cloud above. "I know it's today," she said again, trying for yet another of the many hundreds of times she had said it before to convince herself of its reality, and tried to spy any sign of anything that might pass for a knight or his steed: the rescuer that her vision had foretold. Sadly, she saw no one.

Stubbornly, Fiona waited and continued her vigil across the apocalyptic landscape through the tower window, her fingers almost digging into its brick sill as she clutched it. He _must_ be coming; a dream that real _must_ have meant something special was about to happen. "I _know_ it's today," she repeated over and over like a mantra. Hours passed and the day grew darker, and even though Fiona could not see the sun through the cloud, she knew it was descending. If he did not come soon, then…Fiona shuttered. Not again. Please, God, don't let it happen again.

The sun did appear briefly as it fell beneath the volcanic cloud cover just above the horizon. Then, all too soon after that, it fell below the horizon. As it did so, Fiona saw the familiar swirling, sparkling mist begin at her feet and start enveloping her. She closed her eyes and gripped the sill tighter with her hands as she felt her body began to expand and distort, as it had every sunset for thousands of days before. It was soon over. She opened her eyes to behold two pudgy green ogre hands clasping the window sill. She felt her grotesquely elongated ears droop in disappointment. She needed no mirror – she had broken all the mirrors in this room long ago – to know that her divine beauty had been replaced by the ugly visage of a boated ogress.

Fiona dejectedly dropped her hands to her sides, then turned her back to the window and slumped down against the stone breast wall below it until she was sitting on the cold, dirty floor. She stared into the bleak darkness of her room. So intent was she in her vigil that she had not noticed that the torches on her walls had burned out.

The dream had meant nothing. Tears began to well in Fiona's eyes, but then her ears pricked up as they caught a soft sound beside her. She looked over to see a large cockroach, perhaps some four inches long, slowly crawling up the wall a couple of feet away. It had long, active antennae and a sleek, dark brown carapace that almost glistened in the dimming light that filtered through the window. Fiona felt her now plump tummy rumble as she looked upon the tasty insect. Then her eyes widened. _Tasty_? Dear God, what was she _thinking_?! She jerked her head away until she was again staring into the darkness of her room. "I am _not_ a monster," she said to herself. "I am _not_ a monster. I—"

Then her ears picked up another sound, this time from _outside_. Fiona leapt to her feet and looked out the window again. This time she saw him: A knight in full armor, carrying a banner, and riding a steed. He looked much more conventional than in her vision, but the point was that he _had_ come! The vision was true after all! Fiona felt her heartbeat quicken again as the knight halted his charger just short of the rickety rope-and-plank bridge that spanned the moat. He began to dismount – and proceeded to fall flat on his back with a loud clatter as a foot got caught in a stirrup. Fiona winced. After some noisy effort rolling this way and then that, the knight finally managed to rise again. He then carefully approached the edge of the moat and tentatively looked down into its bubbling, fiery depths, its hellish red glow flickering off of his steel armature. After a few moments he shifted his gaze upward in the direction of Fiona's tower, as if reconsidering. Fiona was about to pull her handkerchief out and wave it to him when she remembered: she was an ogress now! She instinctively drew back toward the shadows – where such beasts belong, she thought bitterly – until she could just barely make the knight's figure out over the window sill. Eventually, his internal debate apparently resolved, the knight dropped his gaze from the tower. Fiona took a couple of steps forward again as the knight pulled out a scroll, unfurled it, and, using the caldera's crimson radiance as a light source to aid the fading twilight, started reading.

"I-I-I, as the champion of the Duloc Invitational Dragon-slaying and Princess-rescuing Tournament, do challenge thee, foul beast—" Here he stopped, looked at the castle entrance, said apologetically "Nothing personal," and then resumed reading, "—and do hereby p-proclaim my intention to free the beautiful, fair, flawless Fiona from thy keep and escort her back to Duloc where she shall wed the manly and brave Lord Farquaad – whose boots I am not worthy to shine, whose hair I am not worthy to anoint, and whose cheeks I am not worthy to pinch – and where she may rule as the perfect queen, subservient to his Perfect King."

With that the knight re-furled the scroll with trembling hands, put it away, drew his sword, and after another moment's hesitation where it seemed to Fiona that he took a large gulp, he began striding across the bridge. A few seconds later he disappeared from Fiona's line of sight as he entered the castle itself.

The princess stood and tried to absorb everything she had just heard. So this knight _wasn't_ to be the one to break the spell, but was just to deliver her to this – had he said "Farquaad"? It sounded like an obscene insult – as if she were some package and he just some delivery boy? After waiting all these years she wasn't even going to be rescued properly? And to be taken to Duloc of all places, which if she recalled correctly was some second-rate kingdom bordering the southern outskirts of Far Far Away and which had apparently, under the stewardship of this Lord Farquaad, either grown in stature or acquired delusions of grandeur. Fiona began to seethe. This just wasn't _right_. This just wasn't—

Then suddenly her more immediate predicament dawned on her yet again. Even if the knight _did_ slay the dragon and enter this chamber, he wouldn't find a "beautiful, fair, flawless" princess. Due to that little thing that happened at night, he would find another beast. Might he already know about the curse? Extremely unlikely, she reflected; her parents, especially her father, had always taken pains to keep her condition a secret, and emphasized that she should never let anyone know about it. Ogres were big, stupid, ugly brutes and to become an ogre was surely one of the most hideous and shameful fates that could befall anyone, let alone a princess. Of course, her parents insisted, Fiona didn't turn into a _real_ ogre; it was just the external manifestation of that dreaded curse. Unlike those true creatures, she still retained her soul. But the knight below wouldn't know any of that; if he entered this room, he might see her and believe that she was another of Fiona's monstrous captors, and might even slay _her_ believing he was saving the princess. How ironic would _that_ be?

And so, when Fiona turned in the direction of the lone, locked door of her room, it was not so much with hope as with apprehension. But it was apprehension that was short-lived, as from within the bowels of the keep she heard the dragon's roar, followed immediately by the knight's scream, which was abruptly cut off.

So much for her vision. Another knight had perished trying to rescue her. Although Fiona was often able to rationalize herself out of feeling guilt over such tragedies since the knights knew what they were getting into and did it voluntarily, she got the impression that such was not the case with _this_ knight, especially with his "Farquaad" talk. Plus, she now actually felt…_relief_. Relief not only that she wouldn't accidentally be killed in her own rescue, but simply that she wouldn't have to be seen…like this. But that relief only added a weight of guilt to her despair. Plus, who knew _how_ much longer she would have to wait now until the next rescuer, who would more than likely meet the same fate? It all seemed so useless, so futile. Her frustration and other emotions bubbling over, Fiona opened her mouth and let out a great, loud scream, a louder scream than she had ever unleashed before. But part way through the scream something happened; the tenor of her voice deepened and became more gravelly, more angry, and what started out as a woman's shrill scream mutated into an ogre's fierce roar, which resounded for miles across the landscape. Fiona quickly clasped her hands over her mouth to stifle the bellow, her eyes widening in shock. Did _that_ come from _her_?

Fiona closed her eyes and tried to concentrate on controlling her breathing. Her overwrought emotions seemed to trip some inner breaker, and she felt energy and passion oozing away as she slowly forced herself to calm down until at last, mentally and emotionally spent, she slumped back into a sitting position on the floor, again leaning against the breast wall beneath the window. Once more Fiona heard a tiny scratching sound and listlessly turned her head to face its source. The cockroach was still there; now it was staring at her, its antennae twitching curiously. Without thinking about it, Fiona reached over, seized the insect, tossed it into her mouth, and crunched down. She needed comfort food. She was licking her lips when the full impact of what she had just done hit her. Then she moaned, rolled onto the floor, curled up there, and buried her face in her hands as twilight faded and she was plunged deeper into darkness. "I am _not_ a monster," she sobbed weakly. "I am _not_ a monster…"


	2. For Want of a Dentist

**Layer 2: For Want of a Dentist  
**

"Excuse me, I'd like to see the Fairy Godmother."

Jerome, a thin, sharp-featured elf, looked up from the papers he was working on from his seat behind the reception desk of the Fairy Godmother's waiting lounge. "May I help y—" he began to say, his words clipped with a hint of irritation, but stopped when he saw no one standing before him.

"Ahem, down here," the voice – that of a young woman – sounded again. Jerome stood up and looked over the top of his desk. There on the floor stood two frogs…on their hind legs. The somewhat smaller of the two rested her webbed hands on her hips, looked up at Jerome, and said in the same voice, "It backfired."

"Pardon?" Jerome asked, his inflection betraying a French accent.

"The princess kissing the frog thing. It backfired!" she said, it now being _her_ turn to show irritation.

"Then I take it that you are a princess?" Jerome asked.

"Duh!" she said, rolling her eyes.

"Darling, I am so sor—" the other frog began saying to her, but the female shot one arm toward him and held her hand out, palm forward, while simultaneously facing the other way, jaw jutted upward, eyes closed.

"Don't _even_ go there!" she said. "Just hold that long, sticky tongue of yours that got me _into_ this mess and go take a seat."

Her companion sighed and resignedly turned, trudged over to one of the many comfortable chairs set in orderly rows in the immaculately kept room, and hopped onto it. The frog princess then looked back up at Jerome. "Anyway," she said, "from what I've heard, if anybody can help me out of this, the Fairy Godmother can."

"Indeed," Jerome conceded. "Very well. I need you to sign in, please."

Jerome reached for a clipboard with a list of visitor names and a quill pen while the frog settled herself on all fours briefly before leaping up onto the desk. Jerome laid the clipboard before her and handed her the quill. She tried to get a grip on it, muttered, "This would be so much _easier_ without the _webbing_," and then managed to scratch her name at the bottom of the list.

Jerome took the clipboard back and looked at the name. "Ah," he said, recognizing it, "you're the new princess in town. I read about you. Welcome to Far Far Away, Your Highness. Now, please take a seat and the Fairy Godmother will be with you when she can."

Without acknowledging Jerome's greeting or saying another word, the frog princess turned, leapt back to the floor, walked over to the chair where her companion sat, hopped onto it, and sat down beside him. He turned toward her and started to open his mouth to say something, but she curtly turned away and sat stiffly, jaw again jutted upward, eyes closed, and arms crossed. He reluctantly closed his mouth, sighed, and looked down dejectedly.

Jerome shook his head and sat back in his chair. How typical of the Godmother's royal clientele. No doubt, though, their story would end with the two frogs transformed into beautiful human beings who would fall in love, marry, and spend the rest of their days in regal splendor. For a price. Indeed, always for a price. Happiness was just a teardrop away…for those who could afford it.

To add to his already normally sour outlook, Jerome had developed a bad toothache. Life, he reflected morosely, was disappointing enough with slaving away as an underpaid and unappreciated reception clerk for the kingdom's celebrated Fairy Godmother, bearing the brunt of the scorn and neglect with which, behind the scenes, she commonly treated those who worked for her, without that added physical distress.

Jerome glanced up at the handful of other clientele – almost all of them royals or nobles or gentry – seated around the room. There were only two patrons who didn't fit that mold: a dwarf holding a small cloth sack on this lap which probably contained gold from the mine that he and his kindred worked in, and a witch who would probably barter spells or offer the copyright to a potion's recipe for whatever services she needed from the Godmother. Everyone paid in one way or another. While waiting, they read magazines or glanced around at the various portraits on the walls, which included two inordinately large works of the Godmother herself as she looked a few years and several pounds earlier.

A sardonic smile pricked at one corner of Jerome's mouth as he looked back down at the papers on the desk before him. If only these people who admired and fawned so on the smiling, benevolent Fairy Godmother knew how ruthless and selfish she could be. Oh, well, Jerome reflected, it could be worse. He could be one of those poor slobs on the shoproom floor working with God knew what sort of chemicals in producing the Godmother's profitable potions. Not that those laborers saw many of those profits for themselves, oh no. How different it was now from the days when the elves ran their bakery from this same spot; those happy, healthy, halcyon days of working in their hollow tree, before the Godmother's hostile takeover. Now the tree had been incorporated into the Godmother's factory as a potion storage room, and the elves toiled for low wages and almost no benefits, including no dental. At that last thought, Jerome's bad molar throbbed again and he moaned quietly. The dentist wanted so much money to fix that tooth, money that Jerome simply didn't have. The elf supposed he would eventually have to have one of his friends just yank it out, but he'd already lost a molar on the other side of his mouth, and he'd hate not to be able to chew his food normally again.

Outside a dog started barking. A moment later the sound of several horses could be heard approaching. Everyone in the room turned and looked to the door as the sound of an approaching coach and more horses joined in the cacophony. The sounds of coach wheels ceased near the doorway, and a moment later the door opened and two fully armored knights strode in. Jerome and the others in the room instinctively stood up, wary. The knights took the measure of the room and then looked at each other and nodded. One of them went to the open doorway, looked out, gave a "thumbs up" signal, and then he and the other knight stood at attention on either side of the doorway. A moment later two other figures, these bedecked in royal attire, entered: the rulers of the kingdom, King Harold and Queen Lillian. Staring straight at Jerome, they began striding toward him, arm in arm, down the aisle formed by two rows of chairs. The various clients all bowed or curtseyed in respect as the couple walked past. As they passed the frog couple, the king looked down at them, gulped uneasily, and then resumed staring ahead. The royal couple was trailed by yet another pair of knights.

The king and queen halted before Jerome's desk, and the elf bowed deeply. "Your Majesties," he said, and then straightened back up. "To what do we owe the honor of your presence here today?"

The two were silent for a moment. The king, whose gray hair and wrinkles indicated his advanced middle age and whose deep worry line indicated more private troubles, opened his mouth to say something, but then closed it again, as if he couldn't quite get himself to do so. His expression bore trepidation. Then the queen, more stately and comely despite her own advancing years, quietly muttered, "Har-ooold." The king sighed, nodded, took a deep breath, and then spoke.

"We wish to see the Fairy Godmother," he announced. A moment later the queen elbowed him slightly in the ribs and he added, "Um, now!"

"Right away, Your Majesties," Jerome said, repressing his curiosity. Was the Fairy Godmother in some sort of trouble? He would almost wish so, except that he was sure that whatever problems beset the Godmother would eventually trickle down onto his head a hundred fold. He pressed the intercom button on his desk and said into a funnel-shaped speaker, "Fairy Godmother, you have two visitors here to see you."

A moment later the Godmother's voice replied, "I'm busy now, Jerome. Have them sign in like the others." Despite the tininess of the sound from the device, the rebuke in her tone was clear.

Jerome pressed the button again and said, "But it's the King and Queen, ma'am."

There was a pause, then the Godmother's voice, noticeably more pleasant this time, said, "Why didn't you say so? Show them right in."

"Yes, ma'am," Jerome said, pressing the button once more. He was sure he would be reprimanded later for not 'saying so'. Nevertheless, he politely gestured to a side door and said, "Right this way, Your Majesties."

Jerome led them to the door, opened it for them, and stood aside while the queen entered, followed by the king. One of the knights started in after the king, but Harold turned and stopped him, laying a hand on his breastplate. "No, no need to follow us here, Captain, I'm sure we'll be safe. This is a – um – private matter.'

"Yes, Sire," the knight said, saluted, and then took a position beside the door. Harold turned and followed Lillian, and then Jerome followed Harold and closed the door behind them.

Jerome led the King and Queen down a short hallway toward the Fairy Godmother's office. As they approached, the office door opened and a girl of ten years old or so stepped out, followed by a little lamb with thick black fleece and a white plastic collar about its neck. Jerome and the monarchs halted as the little girl turned back toward the office doorway and the somewhat portly figure of the Fairy Godmother appeared there. The Godmother smiled benevolently as she looked down at the little girl through half-frame eyeglasses, light sparkling through the Godmother's translucent gossamer wings and off the glitter in her high-coiffed blue-gray hair.

"Now, Mary," the Godmother said to the girl, "you just remember to keep that magical collar on your pet, and you won't have to worry about it getting fleas again for the next six months…of _any_ color."

"Thank you, Fairy Godmother," Mary said.

"Now you run along," the Godmother said. "Tell you parents that I said hello...and that I'll be sending them the bill."

The Fairy Godmother patted the little girl on her head. Mary smiled and turned to go. She saw the king and queen standing there and her eyes widened in surprise. "Oh, hello, Your Majesties!" she said, and curtseyed deeply.

"Hello, child," the queen said sweetly. "You run along back to your parents now, and have a most pleasant day."

"Yes ma'am," Mary said, then stood and headed by them back toward the reception room door, her little lamb following her. As the animal trotted past, a few dead white fleas dropped off of it.

Harold watched them go, a look of confusion on his face, and then turned back to Lillian. "I thought it went 'its _fleece_ was white as snow'?" he said.

The queen, staring forward, said, "Focus, Harold."

"Oh – uh, right, dear," Harold said, as he also looked forward at the Fairy Godmother.

"Greetings, Your Majesties," the Godmother said, smiling and curtseying, although not as deeply as Mary had. "And what might I do for you today?"

"Ah – yes – well," Harold sputtered, "Fairy Godmother, uh, we –"

"We need to talk," Lillian said. "Privately."

The smile faded from the Godmother's lips. "I see," she said. Then stepping aside from her office doorway she gestured to it and said, "Won't you please come in."

"Thank you," both monarchs said, and stepped through the doorway, followed by the Godmother.

It was an ornate office, decorated in pink and white, with bookcases lined with storybooks and potion recipes. Against one wall sat a large glass case containing various vials and bottles of colorful liquids, and against another was mounted a rack that held a set of wands, each with a star-tip, bound together with a locked golden chain to prevent their being taken by unauthorized visitors.

The Godmother headed behind a desk at the front of the room and gestured toward a couple of comfortable chairs before it. "Won't you have a seat?" she asked.

"That won't be necessary," Lillian said. "This will be a short visit. And to the point."

The Godmother looked taken aback. "Oh," she said. "All right. Well, might I have Jerome fetch you something? Coffee, or tea, or –"

"Thank you," Lillian said, "but we won't be staying that long."

The Fairy Godmother stared at Lillian for a moment. "Very well," the Godmother said, her friendly veneer slipping and a hint of annoyance creeping into her voice for just a moment. Then she looked at Jerome, who was standing in the doorway, and said, "That will be enough for now, Jerome. You may close the door and leave us."

"As you wish, Fairy Godmother," Jerome said. He bowed to the figures in the room and then closed the door. He began to walk back toward the reception room, but then stopped and looked back at the door of the Godmother's office. After a moment's internal debate, he tip-toed back to the door and laid one of his pointed ears against it.

* * *

Dama Fortuna, better known as the Fairy Godmother of Far Far Away – indeed, most people knew her _only_ by that sobriquet – tried to suppress her apprehension behind yet another pleasant smile as she faced the two monarchs. Clairvoyance was not one of her magical gifts, but she feared she knew exactly what this little chat was going to be about. "Now then," she said, "what can I do for Your Majesties?"

There was a moment of awkward silence as both monarchs stared at her, the queen placid but with an unusual firmness to her features, but the king, as Dama expected, looked more anxious, and tried not to meet her eyes. Then, Lillian looked over at her husband. "Harold?" she prodded.

"Ah, yes, right," he said, then finally brought himself to look directly at Dama. "We've been discussing the situation and we, well…we want her back."

Dama squelched an urge to curse. It _was_ going to be what she feared. At least it wasn't unexpected. Still, she had to play this out. "Want…_whom_ back?" she asked, trying to sound innocent.

"Fiona," Harold said, "our daughter."

"I suspect the Fairy Godmother already knows who Fiona is, Harold," the queen said.

Lillian's response to her husband might have been a joke in other circumstances, but her firm features showed that she remained serious – and resolved. That was what bothered Dama the most. Harold she could handle – his demeanor, as usual, indicated he still feared the secrets she held over him. But Lillian – the queen had always been the stronger of the two, the more decisive, even while adroitly manipulating appearances to make things seem as if Harold was completely in charge, even to Harold. Not in a cynical or condescending manner, but in a way that was actually supportive of her husband. Now, though, she appeared more assertive, at least on this issue. That was not good. Dama knew she could handle the milksop Harold without problem. But a duel of wills with Lillian, with the queen's intelligence and competence, was another matter. Still, Dama was not without leverage there. She took a deep breath, and then responded. "I know that it seems like a long time."

"_Seems?_" Lillian said. "It's now been over twenty _years_."

"Yes, I know," Dama said. "And believe me, I'm surprised it's taken this long myself."

"Much _too_ long," Lillian said, "isn't that right, Harold?"

"Yes. Right," Harold agreed. "And so we'd like to…call off the spell."

Dama sighed. "Even if I could," she said, "do you realize what that would mean? Fiona would have sacrificed over two decades of her life, all in vain."

"_She_ didn't sacrifice them," Lillian said. "_We_ did. All of us." Now the queen's stoic features briefly twisted to a grimace of pain. "May God forgive me for my part in it. No, may _Fiona_ forgive me."

"And I'm sure she will," Dama said. "Once she is rescued, relieved of the dreaded curse, and returns home a happy bride!"

"That's what we've been telling ourselves for years," Lillian said. "Just a little longer. Any day could be the day. But knight after knight has tried, and they've all failed. Meanwhile, poor Fiona rots in that tower, her youth wasting away. Waiting…because we _told_ her to wait. She must hate us by now, if she's even still sane after all this time in solitary isolation."

"Now, Lillian, I'm sure she doesn't hate you, and I'm sure she's fine mentally," Dama said. She didn't add that that was one of the reasons she chose an ogre as Fiona's alter ego in the first spell she had originally cast against her daughter, the one that Lillian was fortunately ignorant of. Ogres as a species handled isolation quite well. They usually craved it, in fact. They would form strong bonds with their mates, and were dedicated to their offspring – at least up to their year of separation – but they usually only banded together beyond the immediate family unit in cases of dire necessity. The princess would suffer, of course. How could the poor thing _not_, considering the unique stew of natural and magical elements and circumstances that made up her being and situation? That was unfortunate but unavoidable. But Fiona would not go mad. At least, Dama didn't _think_ so.

Lillian shook her head. "We should never have done this," she said. "Fiona was innocent. It was our own prejudices and fears that drove her away."

"Lillian, please," Dama said. "It was – and is – for her own good. Can you imagine her going through her entire life as a changeling, spending every night of the rest of her life as a loathsome ogre? This way, as soon as she's rescued, she'll be whole, be beautiful for the rest of her life, and have the prince of her dreams! How could she _not_ have a happily-ever-after?"

Lillian shook her head. "I've heard that story before," she said. "I've been repeating it to myself for too long. It's simply not working. Nobody is getting by the dragon. We need to end this arrangement and figure out something else. We _have_ to. In the mean time, we need Fiona back here with us, in her home, where she belongs. This – this 'Prince Charming' scenario – is taking far too long."

"Yes – I quite agree!" Harold said.

The two women looked over at Harold. It seemed that, caught up in their own conversation as they were, they had almost forgotten he was there. Harold blushed and looked down at his feet. "It's not her fault," he said, then looked back up at Dama. "Surely there is _some_ other way?" he said pleadingly.

Dama paused. There was one thing they were all in accord on – the 'Prince Charming' scenario _was_ taking far too long – especially since the particular Prince Charming who would be rescuing Fiona was to be Dama's own son. Again she uttered an inner curse. What _was_ delaying him? She had drilled his destiny into him since he was a boy. Now grown into a strong, handsome, brave young man, he should have fulfilled that destiny long ago. Of course, she could never admit this to Lillian; that it was _always_ Dama's son who was intended to be Fiona's rescuer, husband, and eventual king to the land via her daughter, that this was to be the entire point to the spells involving Harold, Fiona, and – fortunately unbeknownst to the queen – indirectly Lillian herself, as the incantations that had made Harold the man he was rather than a slimy frog had the reciprocal effect of allowing him to sire but one offspring, a daughter, and left Lillian's womb void of any further hereditary contenders for the crown.

"Fairy Godmother?" Harold was speaking again. "Perhaps if we negotiated with the dragon—"

Dama shook her head. "In her own way the dragon is as bound by the spell to be guardian as Fiona is as her prisoner," she said. "But it's what keeps the beast from ravaging the countryside or demanding virginal sacrifices. You wouldn't want something like _that_ to happen, would you?"

Harold looked down for a moment, as if considering. Then he sighed deeply, looked up, and stared Dama directly in the eyes. "Find a way to free Fiona," he said. "We'll find a way to deal with the dragon."

Dama was a bit taken aback. Harold had seldom shown such resolve with her. "I—I'm sorry, but it's a bit of a package deal," she said, flustered for one of the few times in her life. But she quickly regained her composure and added, "But I tell you what. Let me look into it. There might be _something_ I can do. Give me a few days – a week at most – and I'll get back with you."

Dama smiled sweetly. Harold raised an eyebrow skeptically. He obviously didn't trust her. But it was also obvious he really didn't have a choice. He looked back at his wife. "Lillian?" he said.

The queen sighed. "I suppose we'll _have_ to…" she said resignedly, but then looking at Dama with a more resolute posture, added, "…for _now_."

"Of course, dear," Dama said, approaching them. Taking the queen's arm and leading her toward the door, Harold close behind, Dama said in her most soothing, Fairy Godmotherly manner, "And I certainly understand your frustration, believe me I do. But just a teensy bit more patience and I'm sure things will all work out for the better…"

* * *

Jerome tiptoed away as quickly as he could for several paces when he heard them moving toward the door, and then scurried back to his desk when he heard it opening behind him. Fortunately the Godmother was still busy placating the royal couple and never saw him. As he resumed distractedly working on the papers on his desk, a small, sinister smile crept up one corner of his mouth, despite the throbbing molar behind it. It appeared that the fates might be smiling on him at last. He began watching the too-slow moving clock. He had just acquired an appointment to keep that night.


	3. Rendezvous with a Rapscallion

**Layer 3: Rendezvous with a Rapscallion**

It was a dark, cold night, with eerie winds whistling through the trees. As Jerome approached the Poison Apple tavern, it only seemed to grow darker and colder, and much eerier, especially since some of the trees through which the wind whistled were consciously alive…and watching him. Still, it wasn't whatever enchanted trees might be watching that worried Jerome – after all, their bark _was_ worse than their bite – as much as any of the Fairy Godmother's more prosaic but also more dangerous human thugs. He kept looking back over his shoulder to make sure that none were lurking in the murky, shifting shadows.

Jerome clutched his cloak about him tighter as he drew near the tavern's tall, thick wooden door with a shut viewing slot some five feet up. He could make out the muted sounds of piano music and raucousness leaking through from within. The elf knocked. A moment later the slot was slid open from the other side and Jerome found himself staring into a large brown eye.

"Password?" a voice from the other side grumbled.

"Oh…Uh…Of gods and mothers," Jerome stammered.

The eye scrutinized him in silence for a bit longer, and then the voice grunted and the slot slid shut. A moment later the door opened with a rusty creek and Jerome cautiously walked in. He looked back over his shoulder to see a tall, tough looking cyclops, whose eye had so carefully examined him, close the door behind him and assume a watchful stand beside it.

The tavern was its usual smoky, foul-smelling, noisy self. Clientele ranging from pirates to witches to fairies to God-knew-what populated the tables and the barstools. At the piano the pirate Captain Hook, who had apparently partaken of some of the establishment's refreshments himself that night, pounded out "Piano Man" to his own gravelly-throated, off-key accompaniment. Near the center of the room some gibbering goblins were playing darts – using blowguns – with a terrified, top hat and tails adorned cricket attached to the dartboard's bulls-eye as a target. Elsewhere a black-gowned, hook-nosed witch was playing pool with a spangle-cloaked, long-bearded wizard, the witch using her broomstick as a cue, the wizard his staff. Over on one side of the room some drunken Vikings were dwarf tossing. On another side of the room some drunken dwarves were pixie tossing.

Jerome wasn't interested in any of that. Instead, his gaze fixed on one corner of the room which contained a small, especially dimly lit booth with a wooden sign nailed above it that showed an arrow pointing down and the unevenly scrawled words: "YE OLDE SCHEMERS' SPOT: Reserved for nefarious negotiations, perfidious plots, and dastardly deals." As he drew near to it he uttered a quiet curse. The booth was empty.

He spied across the room until he spotted the figure of a small being, an imp, sitting at a table, an odd rectangular-brimmed hat atop his head. Unfortunately the fellow had apparently passed out, and his head was resting on the tabletop. One of his hands, also resting on the tabletop, still clutched a partially full ale mug. Jerome approached the figure, picking up on his snoring as he did so. Jerome looked down at him, noting that the sleeves of his tunic didn't cover the entire arms, and that one wrist had a picture of a baby's pacifier tattooed on it. The elf reached down shook his shoulder. "Rumpelstiltskin?" he asked.

The imp awoke – to a degree – and groggily raised his scraggly-bearded head. His bloodshot eyes slowly opened – one eye did, anyway; the other remained half-closed – and he looked at Jerome without quite managing to focus on him. "Yeah. Whaddyawant?" he said hoarsely.

The elf winced at the smell of Rumpelstiltskin's fermented breath. "I'm here to make a deal," Jerome said, trying to keep his voice as hushed as he could in this place and still be heard.

"Ssssorry," Rumpelstiltskin slurred. "I'm retired. You wanna speak to my nephew, _Freddy_ Rumpelstiltskin."

"Yes, I _know_," Jerome said, looking up and trying to see if he could spy the other Rumpelstiltskin in the tavern. "Do you know if he's gong to be here to—"

There was a loud thump. Jerome looked back down to see Rumpelstiltskin's head back on the table. A few seconds later and he started snoring again.

Jerome sighed. Resignedly he strode over to the bar and took a seat on one of the barstools beside a young woman. A few moments later a tall, muscular barmaid appeared across the bar from him. Despite neatly styled brunet hair and modest makeup, her hard features were completely unattractive. The scowl on her face didn't help. "What'll it be?" she asked in a deep, gruff, distinctly unfeminine voice.

"Nectar, Doris," Jerome responded. "Hard."

"One hard nectar, coming up," Doris said, and turned to get his drink.

As the barmaid was working, Jerome glanced at the woman on the barstool beside him. She was a reasonably attractive blonde who appeared to be in her early twenties, although rather smallish despite being an adult – all of which where positives in the elf's book. She wasn't paying attention to him yet; she seemed focused on eating from a bowl in front of her which contained the last vestiges of some curds and whey. Jerome was about to speak to her when a huge black spider crawled up onto the barstool to the woman's other side. She looked over and saw it, then shrieked, leaped from her barstool, and ran screaming across the room and out the door, which the cyclops calmly opened when he saw her coming and then closed behind her.

The spider shook its head and rolled all eight eyes. "How typical," it said. Then it waved a couple of hairy limbs toward the barmaid. "Oh, Doris?" it called.

"I'll be with ya in a minute, Shelly," Doris said testily as she headed toward Jerome, a cup in her hand. "And the next dine & dash you cause, _you're_ paying their tab."

"Sorry," the spider said contritely.

Doris plopped the cup in front of Jerome. "One hard nectar," she said.

"Thank you," Jerome said. He tossed some coins for the drink onto the bar, and then asked in a hushed voice, "Also, I was wondering if you could help me. Is…He Who Must Be Named here tonight?"

"Rumpelstiltskin?" Doris asked.

Jerome nodded.

Doris gestured over toward the snoring imp that he'd spoken with earlier. "You tried –"

"The other one," Jerome said.

"Well, I've not seen him tonight, but…hmmm," Doris said, then looked upward contemplatively and rubbed her chin. Jerome could swear he heard the sound of whiskers scratching skin as she did so. "Let's see. Today's Thursday, and that's when he likes to show up to see if somebody would like to make a deal."

"I am somebody," Jerome said.

"Then you might be in luck tonight, Jesse," she said

"That's 'Jerome'," he corrected her.

"Whatever," Doris said. She then nodded toward the corner booth that Jerome had checked earlier and said, "Why don't you take a seat over there? I expect he'll show up eventually, and that's his favorite spot, you know."

"Yes, I know. Thanks," he said.

Jerome picked up his drink and slowly headed toward the booth, sneaking cautious glances across the room and back over either shoulder in turn to make sure nobody was watching him. The only person aside from the cyclops who appeared to be paying any attention was a mysterious black-bearded stranger who wore the hooded cowl and dark garb of one of those wild and dangerous men from a distant, rough-and-tumble land: rangers, Jerome thought they were called, or perhaps islanders. The stranger sat quietly alone at a nearby table smoking a long-necked pipe while seeming to be taking in everything with stoic scrutiny. But then Jerome caught a whiff of what the man was smoking and realized that what he'd mistaken for aloof vigilance was instead a vacant stare, and so the elf felt a little relieved as he slunk self-consciously into the booth. He rested an elbow of one arm on the tabletop and propped his head on its hand in such a way that most of his face was obscured from the tavern patrons. He then took a deep drink of the nectar and shuddered at its potency. Still, it helped steel his nerves. He was throwing his head back and starting to take another, even deeper swig when someone abruptly slid into the booth on the opposite side of its table from him and said cheerily, "Well! Good evening, Jerome!"

Startled, Jerome did a spit-take, spewing nectar across the table and over the face and torso of the newcomer sitting there. Jerome sat his cup down and, wiping his mouth with a sleeve, found himself looking into the dampened and scowling face of another small, pointed-eared imp, this one with a triangular face topped with unkempt reddish-brown hair and anchored by a too-long chin. "Thanks anyway, Jerome," the fellow said sarcastically, grabbing a napkin and wiping his face, "but I prefer to pay for my _own_ drinks."

"Oh! Rumpelstiltskin!" Jerome said, blushing in embarrassment. "I beg your pardon! I didn't mean –"

Rumpelstiltskin waved the apology off with the hand that held the napkin. "Never mind," he said. "It'll be worth it if you're bringing another of your reports from the lair of the F.G.M."

"Indeed I am!" Jerome said. That brought a smile back to Rumpelstiltskin's face as he blotted his tunic with the napkin. The little being had _such_ magic envy. Jerome hoped that would help his bargaining.

"Good," Rumpelstiltskin said, tossing the napkin aside and reaching into a satchel strapped to his side and pulling out a small cloth bag. He tossed it on the table; it landed with the sound of the metallic clink of coins. "Lay it on me."

"This news," Jerome said, paused to gulp slightly, and then continued, "is special. I think it warrants…thrice the normal pay."

Rumpelstiltskin raised an eyebrow. "Now, Jerome," he said in a calm, reasonable tone, "let's not get greedy. Avarice is one of the seven big ones, you know."

Jerome shook his head. "You don't understand," he said. "This concerns the Godmother and her relationship with the crown itself!"

"Really?" Rumpelstiltskin said, this time raising both eyebrows, unable to repress his intrigue.

"Really really," Jerome said, delighted to see Rumpelstiltskin's interest. "So, if you could just pay me –"

"Not so fast, not so fast," Rumpelstiltskin said, waving him back. "Do I look like I'm _made_ of money?" he asked, gesturing to his modest apparel. "If I were, do you think I'd live in a blasted carriage park? F.G.M. takes every means she can, legal and otherwise, to keep us other magic users in the kingdom from making anywhere _near_ enough to challenge her status. What am I to do?"

It would help, Jerome thought, if you actually offered fair deals in your magical contracts instead of loading them with such legal fine print and so many hidden "gotchas" that your reputation makes that of used coach salesmen look like that of Saint George. But Jerome didn't say any of that. Instead, what he did say was, "I know. But believe me, a skilled, resourceful magic user such as yourself can use this information to _end_ the Godmother's dominance. Perhaps even supplant her. Is that not worth at _least_ three small, relatively insignificant bags of gold?" A twinge of pain throbbed in Jerome's molar, and he laid a hand to his jaw. "Besides," he added, "I'm in desperate need of a dentist to fix a tooth."

"A dentist?" Rumpelstiltskin's eyes brightened. "Why didn't you say so? Who needs a dentist? Tell you what, I'll draw up a quick contract which says if you tell me what you know, I'll fix your tooth and –"

"No no, no contracts!" Jerome protested. "The last person who signed one of your contracts to fix his toothaches woke the next morning toothless and with a pair of dentures in a glass on his nightstand!"

"Well, it fixed his problem, didn't it?" Rumpelstiltskin asked. Seeing Jerome's expression, he relented. "Okay, okay. I'll give you _two_ bags of gold now." He tossed a second small bag onto the table. "And if I find this information as useful as you claim it is, _then_ I'll give you a third. But only _if_. Is _that_ a deal?"

Jerome thought it over for a few seconds, then said, "All right" and reached out and slid the two bags to his side of the table.

"Okay," Rumpelstiltskin said, "spill the beans, Jack."

"That's 'Jerome'."

"Whatever."

Jerome then told Rumpelstiltskin everything that he'd heard during the conversation between the Fairy Godmother and the royal couple. As he did so, Rumpelstiltskin's face took on more and more interest in what he was hearing, and toward the end he seemed almost enraptured.

"Well," Jerome said after he had finished, "what do you think?"

But Rumpelstiltskin did not seem to hear him; he was staring off into space, the expression on his face like one who was having an epiphany.

"Rumpelstiltskin?" Jerome said. He had assumed by his reaction that Rumpelstiltskin had found the information as valuable as Jerome had hoped; now Jerome feared that Rumpelstiltskin was having an attack of apoplexy instead.

"Let's see," Rumpelstiltskin started muttering quietly to himself as if Jerome wasn't there, "I'll probably need a good recommendation from someone notable…hmmm…wait, I know! I can make a deal with King Midas that if he gives me a recommendation then I'll change that gold statue in his hallway back into his daughter…no need to let them know how she _got_ that way to begin with, of course…yes…and I'll need to act fast in case she's not bluffing about that 'week' thing…hmmm…"

"Rumpelstiltskin?" Jerome repeated, a bit more loudly.

Rumpelstiltskin, his eyes still glazed, looked at Jerome. "Huh?"

"The information. You agree it's worth three bags, do you not?"

"Oh," Rumpelstiltskin said, snapping back to the reality. "Jerome, my friend, in this case I feel you've truly earned your due. Here…" and with that, he reached into his satchel, pulled out a third bag, and tossed it to Jerome.

Jerome caught the bag and was staring down greedily at it as Rumpelstiltskin got up from the booth with a buoyant, "Have a nice evening!"

"Oh, wait!" Jerome said as Rumpelstiltskin started to turn away. As he turned back to face him, Jerome said, "You _will_ remember my service to you over the years if you supplant the Godmother, won't you?"

"Supplant the _Godmother_?" Rumpelstiltskin said, and tried to suppress a laugh.

Jerome was confused by his reaction, but pressed on. "Yes. Please. I don't ask for anything elaborate...if I could just be made the shop supervisor instead of just the reception clerk –"

Rumpelstiltskin help up a stifling hand, prompting Jerome to halt his pleading. "Don't worry, my friend," Rumpelstiltskin said, "I'm sure that one day you'll get everything you deserve."

"That's all that I ask," Jerome said.

"Indeed," Rumpelstiltskin said. Then he did release a short guffaw which Jerome found more unnerving than joyous. Rumpelstiltskin then turned and capered away on his curly-toed shoes, a spring in his step and a merry tune whistling through his lips.

Jerome sighed as he watched his benefactor leave. Rumpelstiltskin didn't even honor the spirit of his written agreements; how was Jerome to expect him to even remember a verbal one? Still, if he could manage to bring down the Fairy Godmother, then how could things possibly be any worse?


	4. Charming Encounters

**Layer 4: Charming Encounters**

The morning sun streamed brightly across the vacation castles that lined the seaward facing hillsides of the Hamptonshires summer resort, far away from Far Far Away. Rays of sunlight beamed through the balcony window and into the bedroom of Princess Rapunzel.

Prince Charming was sitting on the edge of the princess's bed, having completed donning his fine raiment except for the gold colored boots which he was pulling on. He finished the task, stomped the boots on the floor to make sure they were snugly fit, and then looked across the room to where the beautiful princess herself was sitting at her vanity, dressed in her nightgown, watching herself in the mirror while she combed through her long blonde hair with an ornate golden brush. She caught a glance of him looking at her in her mirror and smiled. "Sorry to take so long, pookie," she said.

"Oh, quite understandable, kitten whiskers," he said, smiling back. Indeed, her golden locks flowed down her back and sides and formed small pools on the floor.

While Rapunzel was busy at her task, Charming decided to attend to his own needs. He pulled out a small mirror which he always kept handy and checked his face. Ruggedly handsome, as always, he thought, grinning smugly at his reflection. He brushed a hand through his own blond locks and checked his teeth. Perfect, of course.

"I wish you didn't have to leave so early," Rapunzel said.

"Sorry, my love, but duties call," he said, rising from the bed and approaching her.

"Duties? Or other liaisons?" she asked, sounding somewhat hurt. "Perhaps tiring of me?"

Charming was surprised. She wasn't usually that astute. "Now, my dear," he said, weaving his hands through her hair and resting them on her neck, "it's true that I've had one or two…dalliances in the past. But trust me, you are the most magnificent woman I've been with since—" Just then a shadow fell across the balcony window. Charming looked over and saw a carriage floating just off the balcony, with a familiar stern-faced woman glaring at him from the passenger window. "Mummy!" he said.

Rapunzel turned and looked up at him, aghast. "'_Mummy_?'" she echoed. Then she followed his gaze and gasped.

"Hello, Junior," the Fairy Godmother said drearily. Then she opened the carriage door, flitted out of it, through the balcony window, and alighted in the middle of the room. "Sorry to interrupt your…morning," she said, glancing at Rapunzel with distaste before turning back to him, "but we need to talk."

"Mother, this isn't what you think!" he protested. Then, seeing the dubious look in her face, he said, "Well, actually, in a way it is. But –"

"The Fairy Godmother is your _mother_?" Rapunzel interrupted, her face full of rapt surprise.

"My, you are quick on the uptake, aren't you, dear?" the Godmother said sarcastically. "That's a little fact that we like to keep private. Such as this little…relationship…between you and my son is private. Understand?"

Rapunzel nodded, the look of surprise still on her face. The Godmother rolled her eyes and then addressed Charming again. "Get in the carriage. We have an important matter to discuss. It's already taken me a couple of days to track you down and I'm afraid my patience is wearing a bit thin."

"Yes, Mother," he said, started to go, then turned back to Rapunzel, opened his mouth to say something, then stopped, looked back at his mother, then closed his mouth and headed to the balcony.

As Charming passed the Fairy Godmother and she saw the back of his head she said, "Hold on, Junior, you need some work on your hair. You always did have trouble taking care of the back." She then turned back to Rapunzel and held out her hand. "Let me borrow your brush," she said.

"Huh?" Rapunzel said. The Godmother impatiently pointed to the golden brush in her hand. "Oh!" Rupunzel said, and held it toward her. The Godmother snatched it, turned to her son, and started working on the hair on the back of his head. "And by the way, don't you have your _own_ prince?" the Godmother asked as she worked.

"Me?" Rapunzel said. "Well, yes, but you son is so…so…you know. And his face – it looks like it was carved by angels!"

"Yes, I know," the Godmother said.

"I—" Charming started to say.

"Quiet, Junior," the Godmother said.

"And _my_ prince's face, it's got all these little scars on it, you know?" Rapunzel said with distaste.

The Godmother sighed. "Yes. They're from where he fell into thorn bushes one time risking his life visiting you when you were locked in a tower."

"Yeah. They're really icky. Do you think you might…be able to do something about them? It's kind of embarrassing to be seen with him looking like that."

The Godmother bit the inside of her mouth, then said simply, "I think that we should have this discussion at another time, dear."

"Oh. Yeah, I…um…understand," Rapunzel said, and blushed in embarrassment.

"Good," the Godmother said, then patted Charming on his back. "All done, dear. Now go have a seat in the carriage."

"Yes, mother," he said resignedly. He then turned, looked at Rapunzel, again started to say something, again stopped, then just gave a short, curt bow the turned and headed to the carriage.

"Pookie?" Rapunzel said, reaching out after him, but then pulled her hand back when he didn't respond.

In the mean time the Fairy Godmother continued standing where she was, her back to the princess, and shook her head. Then she looked down at the brush in her hand. A thought came to her mind, and a sinister grin crept up one corner of her mouth. She took out her wand, quietly uttered a few words as the wand's star tip grew brighter, and then she touched it to the brush. Sparkling shimmers of the wand's tip transferred to encompass the brush itself for a moment, and then both resumed their normal appearances.

"Fairy Godmother, did you say something?" Rapunzel asked.

The Godmother turned back to the princess. "No, my dear. Here, take your brush back." She handed the brush back to Rapunzel, fighting to keep the little grin from reappearing as the princess took it and a vision entered the Godmother's mind of the princess with all of her precious golden hair having fallen out due to 'unknown causes'.

"I...I'm sorry you caught us like this," Rapunzel said. "Really, if I could just explain—"

"Tut tut, dear," the Godmother said, placing a pair if fingers on the princess's lips. "Again, we'd best discuss this another time."

Rapunzel nodded and looked down ashamedly. "Good," the Godmother said, then turned and flitted into the carriage. She took a seat across from her son, closed the carriage door, and looked back to see that Rupunzel was again turned toward the mirror, although her head was down. After a moment she looked up at her reflection and began brushing her hair again. The Godmother smiled. "Oh, dear!" she called, unable to resist. Rapunzel looked out at her. "Three words, princess," the Godmother said. "'Locks of love'."

Rapunzel looked at her, puzzled. "Huh?" the princess said, as clueless as the Godmother expected.

The Godmother chucked, and then called out to the carriage driver, "Take us about a hundred feet up where we can have some privacy, Kyle."

The carriage sped off, leaving a trail of fairy dust in its wake.

* * *

Dama looked sternly across at her son. It was times such as this that he brought back the bad memories of his father, a prince himself from another kingdom, whose brief, impetuous romance and briefer marriage with Dama, then a no-name, struggling young sorceress, annulled after pressure from the royal family and threatened disownership which he wouldn't stand up to, had left Dama alone except for the child she was to bear. It had also left her with a deep abiding hatred for royalty and a burning obsession to beat them at their own game by having her son rise to be king of the most envied kingdom in all the land. Not that he would actually run it, of course. Dama would handle that from behind the scenes. For as she raised her son, although it became increasingly clear he would become brave and strong and handsome, all to his mother's pride and delight, it was also clear that he was too impetuous and lacked the intellectual and emotional stability to function as an effective head of state. He might be able to lead a coup. But lead a country? Dama had her doubts.

He didn't meet her eyes, instead casting them away contritely, pouting like a little boy. "That was very embarrassing, Mother," he said abashedly.

Dama sighed. She just couldn't stay mad at him. "It's all right, dear," she said. "It's my own fault. I should have intervened sooner."

He finally looked at her. "I'm not a cad, Mother," he said. "We really do have feelings for each other."

Like the other ladies and princesses I know you've been with, she wanted to say.

"She's really not a floozie," he continued.

"I'm sure she's not, dear," Dama said, smiling and patting his hand. "But I'm afraid the time has come to end it now. It's time to fulfill your destiny."

"What?"

"You know that the kingdom of Far Far Away is to be yours," Dama said. "But first you must claim the king's daughter. It's time to do so."

Charming sat back. "I _plan_ to claim her," he said. "But…Mother, before I settle down, I just wanted to…you know…"

"Yes, I know," she said, wincing. Clichés involving wild oats sprang to mind.

"I mean, I _am_ still young, and it's not like Fiona's _going_ anywhere."

Dama had to beat back a tinge of impatience. "Junior, the Crown is getting anxious, and I confess that I don't blame them. It's time to fulfill your destiny."

"But—"

"It's _time_, Junior," she said with a tone that invited no debate.

Charming sighed. "Yes, mother," he said, again pouty.

Seeing his response, Dama softened again. "Now, dear," she said consolingly, "Fiona's a beautiful young woman. You'll no doubt find her just as…interesting as the princess you were just with, if not more so."

"When she's not a dreadful ogre," he said.

"But your kiss will change all that."

"So you've said. But…" he looked directly at her. "What if she doesn't love me?"

"Now, Junior," she smiled, "what are the odds of that?"

He shrugged conceitedly. "That is true."

"Good," she said with finality. "You leave today."

"Today?"

"If you travel directly there from here cross-country by horseback, it should only take you three or four days."

"Directly? You mean through blistering cold and scorching desert—"

"Yes, dear. The whole schmiel."

"I suppose you couldn't just, you know, take me there in this carriage?"

"No, dear. We should follow the formula as closely as possible. Besides, the trip will do you good. Not to mention the miles-per-dust in this thing is a bear. But you _do_ need to get going. As I said, the king and queen are getting impatient."

"So what? What choice do they have?"

"None, really. Or at least they shouldn't," Dama said. "Still, I get the feeling that we need to move on this quickly."

* * *

Meanwhile, peeking out from her concealed position behind one of the tall pines that crowned the hilltops, a black-gowned, pointy-hat wearing crone hovered on her broom. After watching the floating coach for a while she reached inside her gown and pulled out a fist-sized crystal ball. She stared into the swirling mists within it as they slowly congealed into the face of Rumpelstiltskin.

"Well?" he asked anxiously.

"I followed F.G.M. as you requested. She met with P.C. on the q.t."

"Excellent!" he said excitedly. "Now, follow Charming, but very discreetly. If things go well with the royals, and we have the power of the state to back us when we make our move, then we'll be set to launch Operation Boy-toy and neutralize any resistance from F.G.M., and then no one can stand in our way!"

The witch simply continued to stare patiently at the crystal ball for a few moments. Eventually Rumpelstiltskin asked, "What?"

"I'm just waiting for you to burst into maniacal laughter," she said matter-of-factly.

Rumpelstiltskin's face took on an irritated scowl. "Just keep tabs on Charming," he said. "Rumpel out."


	5. Deals with Evils Past

**Layer 5: Deals with Evils Past**

* * *

Author's notes:

First, thanks very much to TrudiRose for beta reading this chapter for me, and for her feedback and corrections. (Please check out her own stories. They're excellent!)

Second, it was pointed out by another friend that in _Shrek Forever After_, Dragon's keep is less than a day's journey from Far Far Away. So a couple of weeks ago I modified the previous chapter slightly, setting the confrontation between the Fairy Godmother and Prince Charming at Rapunzel's vacation castle in the distant resort of "The Hamptonshires" rather than her residence in FFA's princess row, so that it will still take several days for Charming to travel cross-country to the Keep, and when Godmother and Charming are having their discussion in her carriage, they are not hovering over Harold's castle. The rest of the chapter runs pretty much the same as before. But if you already read the earlier version and see a reference to "The Hamptonshires" later, now you'll know what it's referring to.

Thank you. And now on to the next chapter.

* * *

Harold wandered around the lush greenery that surrounded the lily pond just off the royal gardens. He often came here to do some reflecting, and recent events had once again prompted memories that he wished he could bury: memories of mistakes he wished he could undo and of deals he wished he could unmake, especially when they harmed innocents.

Like Fiona.

Harold looked across the pond at a small frog – one of the blissfully insentient sort – croaking contentedly from its seat upon a floating lily pad. It was at another pond not unlike this one where it all began. That day so many years ago when he, a poor, cursed prince, doomed to live his life as an outcast amphibian, had spied that lovely strawberry blonde maiden. She had appeared that morning, believing she was alone, to drink in the fresh air, admire the beautiful scenery, and, he found out, perform her tai chi. Every move was exquisite and every contour divine. Harold watched, mesmerized, playing the dumb animal, as he observed the young Aphrodite only a few yards away.

To Harold's delight, the maiden made her "lone" appearances at the pond a daily ritual, performing her tai chi for about a half hour every morning, and then often just sitting by the pond and looking out across it reflectively, sometimes meditating. Occasionally she would reach out and playfully twirl a pad with a finger.

One day she picked a particularly lovely white lily, sniffed its fragrant scent, smiled, and let the flower drop by the edge of the pond. She then turned and left, walking with her usual eloquent, gliding gait. Harold wondered what she was thinking when she had smiled. Could it be that some young man had caught her interest, and that her mind was on him? Harold felt his heart sink at the thought. He walked over on all fours to where she had dropped the flower, and then reached out a webbed hand and picked it up. "Oh, my dear," she moaned, looking at the lily. "If only I could admire you like a man should, or have a chance to woo you as a man ought. If only. Oh, what I wouldn't give."

"Oh? What _would_ you give?" a female voice spoke.

Harold looked up, startled. For a moment he feared that the maiden had returned. But then from around one of the nearby tall, ornamental shrubs stepped a woman in her mid-to-late twenties with pleasant but sharp facial features and a build that was relatively thin but hinted at the potential for plumpness. Her blonde hair fell about her shoulders and was so white that Harold doubted its naturalness; he suspected peroxide was involved. She wore a simple long-sleeved woolen kirtle. She approached him with such purposeful strides that Harold at first shrank back, but then, forcing indignation into his voice, he said, "Who the devil are you? And why were you spying on us?"

The woman stopped a few feet away. "Oh, forgive me, Your Highness," she said, curtseying.

Harold felt himself blush and wondered if she could see it. "You know—" he gasped.

"About your unfortunate fate, Prince Harold? Yes, I had heard. And then one day when I wandered by and happened to see the young lady and recognized the way you were looking at her – well, I do have some deductive abilities."

"I never heard you —"

"I'm also quiet."

"How did you know I wasn't just a…just a—"

"Just another mindless little amphibian? Well, I'm in the business of magic myself, you see. In fact, I'm quite good at it. So it's not difficult for me to tell the difference in the demeanor of a sentient creature."

Harold sighed. "I thought my…condition…was a secret."

"Oh, it is. Your family certainly saw to that. However, there are certain…circles I travel in where I learned of your sad fate. In addition to that, I'm also good at learning more mundane things without arousing suspicion. For example, the young lady's name is 'Lillian' – deliciously appropriate, don't you think? She's the daughter of a noble couple that recently moved into the area." She paused, and then added, "She's unattached…so far."

Harold blinked, and then asked, "Who _are_ you?"

"My name is Dama. Dama Fortuna," she said, and then curtseyed again. "I am a sorceress, and I'm quite good at that, too, which is why I'm certain that I can help you in attaining a human form so that you can attain your heart's desire."

Harold stared at her, afraid to believe what he had heard. "You can _do_ that?"

"From what I've learned of your condition, yes, I'm fairly confident that I can."

Harold felt his heart leap. "You'd do that…for me?" he asked.

"No," she said. "I'd do it…for a price."

Much of Harold's elation was quickly displaced by suspicion. "What…_price_?"

"Well," she said, "once you attain human form, then your family will surely rescind your disownment. Oh, I said 'family', didn't I? Actually, your father, the king, is the last surviving member of your bloodline. And have you heard that he's quite ill at the moment? He's in rather dire need to name a qualified successor – there's a cousin named 'Uther' somewhere but nobody seems to know where, probably chasing grails or some such – lest the kingdom fall into disorder upon his demise. Your return will be most opportune, and will place you as the heir to the kingdom of Far Far Away. They'll have to make up some story to explain your absence – they don't want people knowing you've been chasing flies around lily ponds for the past many years, of course – but I'm sure something can be arranged. And then…think of it, Prince Harold. Not only will you have Lillian as your wife, but you will eventually be ruler of the most admired and envied kingdom in the land!"

"You say my father is ill?" he asked, concerned.

"Oh, yes. And just think of how much your re-appearance as a human will comfort him in his despair!"

"Yes," he said, "but you mentioned…a _price_."

"Well, first, I would expect certain considerations. I plan on moving from the field of sorcery into the Fairy Godmother business, where the clientele is more respected and the money is better. I expect to earn most of this on my own, you understand. But little things – recommendations to other royals and nobles, granting of certain key contracts that I might bid on – small things like that."

"Uh-huh," Harold said dubiously. "But you said 'first.' How many other – items – are on your list?"

"Only one," she said. "Let me show you."

Harold watched curiously as Dama turned and trotted back out of sight somewhere behind the hedges. A short while later she returned…holding a baby wrapped in a brown woolen blanket in her arms. She looked down at it, smiling, cooing, and shaking her head playfully, as she approached. She sank to her knees just in front of Harold and held out the baby: a boy a few months old, with an already handsome face and fair blond locks.

"Prince Harold," she said, "meet my son, Charming…your future son-in-law."

Harold gaped up at her. "_What_?"

"Oh, don't worry," she said. "He's of royal heritage. He was conceived while I was married to a prince – a prince who, unfortunately, couldn't deal with being threatened with the disownment that you now suffer. A poor sorceress from the commoner class in the family was an embarrassment for them, you see – and being rejected because you're an embarrassment is something you can sympathize with, is it not? So although I can't give my son the type of life he deserves right now, I _do_ want to give him the type of future he deserves, as a future member of your royal house. Thus, my second condition: you must pledge that your firstborn daughter will marry my son."

"I can't do that!" Harold objected. "If I have a daughter, she needs to be able to choose for herself who she wants to marry. I can't just choose for her like that. No. No, I won't do it."

"Oh, please," Dama said disgustedly, rolling her eyes. "You monarchs do it all the time for diplomatic purposes, trading princesses around to each others' kingdoms like they were jousting cards. They end up in lands they know little of, which speak languages they don't even understand, and are bound to husbands they never met and who care little for them except as breeding stock. Your daughter will be lucky. She gets to remain in your kingdom, under your wing, and will end up marrying the bravest and most handsome prince in the known world." She looked back down at her baby and her hard features transformed into a broad smiling face. "That's what you're going to be, aren't you, precious?" she said, and rubbed his nose with hers. The baby smiled back and giggled.

Harold watched them for a moment, and then it dawned on him what was happening. "My God!" he said. "You're trying to set him up to be king!"

Dama looked back up at Harold, and her hard features returned as if they had never left. "Come now," she said. "Your precious patriarchy is still intact. I'm just asking for a pledge of your firstborn _daughter_. We both know that the kingship will still flow to any firstborn _son_ you have, regardless of whether he's born before your daughter or not."

"That's true," Harold conceded. "So then why—"

"Because my son _deserves_ to be in a royal house," Dama snapped. "He deserves the birthright his father denied him when he…denied me. All I seek is justice for us both. _This_ would be justice."

Harold's lips pursed as he mulled things over. "I…I don't know…" he said.

"Fine," Dama said, shrugging and rising back up off her knees. She looked down on the frog prince as she bounced the baby lightly in her arms. "If that's your decision. Of course, the fact that now you won't even _have_ a daughter makes all this moot, doesn't it? I hope you find happiness, watching the maiden and imaging what _could_ have been." Dama then turned and started walking away.

"No!" Harold called, suddenly panicking. "Stop!"

Dama stopped walking, waited a moment, and then turned. "Do we have a deal?" she asked, her voice hard.

Harold sighed. "Yes, yes. We have a deal," he said reluctantly.

Dama's broad smile sent shivers down his back.

* * *

All these events replayed in Harold's mind for what seemed like the millionth time over the years. Meanwhile the little frog he was watching continued to croak contentedly. Harold had thought he would never envy the life of one of his inhuman cousins once he had escaped that existence. Now he wasn't so sure.

Suddenly a stone came skipping across the pond. It struck the frog, silencing it in mid-croak and knocking it off the lily pad and sending it plopping into the water. A moment later Harold saw it floating belly-up. It was dead.

Harold looked over to where the stone had come from and gasped. Some fifteen yards away, standing by the edge of the pond, was a broad, brawny, shaven-headed man of over six foot height, dressed in simple yeoman's clothes. Harold recognized him as one of the Fairy Godmother's…she called them "attendants." To Harold, they were henchmen. The man stared at Harold with steely eyes set in the hard implacable features of his face. Then he muttered "Your Majesty" and bowed slowly in an outward gesture of deference. But the man's features remained firmly stoic and his eyes never lowered.

Harold gulped. The Godmother was sending him a message. Unsurprisingly, she had apparently not been pleased to be called out by him and Lillian at her office the other day. The henchman would not do anything without his master present – at least, Harold _hoped_ not – but the message was clear. Harold had overstepped his bounds. And yet, _Harold_ was _king_. Sweet Heaven, how had it come to this?

Of course, Harold knew how it had come. More memories came flowing back, unbidden and unwelcome. But they came nevertheless. Such as the memories from what should have been the happiest day of his life: the day that his daughter was born.

He remembered spending most of that day pacing back and forth, waiting and pacing nervously in a high-ceilinged chamber while the doctor and his nurses…did whatever doctors and nurses did in such situations. The labor was long and difficult. And Harold was sure it was difficult for Lillian, too.

Two men were in the room with Harold, both seated beside each other, their eyes trained on their king as he paced. One of the pair was the chamberlain, a tall, dark-skinned man of African descent who stood some seven feet high and sported a goatee. "What wilt thou have us do, Sire?" the chamberlain asked.

"There's nothing _to_ be done but wait," Harold said, "and try to be patient."

"Patient?" the portly, jovial man seated beside the chamberlain said. "But the _king_ cannot be patient, for the doctor is with the _queen_!"

Harold whirled on the man. "Do you dare jest with me?" he demanded.

The man nodded, sending the little bells attached to the three-pointed multi-colored cap he wore jingling. "That _is_ my job, Sire," the jester said.

"Sorry," Harold conceded, waving him off. Then Harold ran his hand through his hair, hair already graying at the temples. He wished that Dama had granted him a better looking or more hardy human form. The face that stared back at him from the mirror still had too much of a hint of the amphibian about the features, or at least Harold thought so.

Suddenly a door to the chamber opened and Dama flew in on the gossamer wings she had somehow grafted onto her back when she took up her quest to become the officially recognized Fairy Godmother of Far Far Away.

She spotted Harold and smiled. "I just heard," she said happily, alighting before him. "Congratulations, your Majesty," she said, curtseying.

Harold instinctively drew back from the almost gushing Godmother. "Thank you," he said coolly, "but I fear congratulations are premature. Lillian is still in labor."

"Oh, don't fear, Your Majesty," Dama said, rising. "I'm sure that your wife and daughter will both be fine."

"Well, I hope you're ri—" Harold began, then looked at her suspiciously. "How the devil do you know that she'll have a girl?"

Dama looked taken aback for only a moment, but then shrugged and said nonchalantly, "Oh, just a feeling I have."

Harold continued to scrutinize her. Dama had changed her appearance much since that day they met by the pond, and far beyond the fairy wings. Her hair, now worn in a high-coiffed bun, was still dyed blonde, but the color looked more natural now, and it was sprinkled with glitter. Her makeup was expertly applied, and she wore pink horn-rimmed glasses, with diamond studs adorning the corners. Instead of a woolen kirtle, she wore a light blue silken dress decorated with sequins. In one hand she carried a new, powerful star-tipped wand instead of the stick-like thing that she had used as a simple sorceress. Yes, much had changed over the years. At least, superficially.

Suddenly a door on the other side of the room opened. The chamberlain and jester rose as everybody looked to the doorway, where the stout, balding doctor, his sleeves rolled back to the elbow, stood. His wire-rimmed glasses had slipped down to the end of his bulbous nose. He looked at Harold for a moment, his expression inscrutable. Harold held his breath and had started to fear that something had gone wrong. But then, the doctor smiled.

"Congratulations, Sire," he said. "You have a beautiful baby girl."

The others in the room cheered and patted Harold on the back as he let out a great sigh of relief. Feeling tears start forming in his eyes, he pinched the bridge of his nose and covertly wiped them away. As long as his wife and child were all right, nothing mattered to him at the moment, not even Dama's fulfilled prophesy about the baby's gender. He dropped his hand and looked at the doctor. "May I see my wife and child now?" he asked, almost choking on the words.

"Certainly, Sire," the doctor said, standing aside and gesturing Harold to the doorway.

Harold proceeded through the doorway and the doctor shut the door behind them. He then led Harold down a corridor and then opened the door to the birthing room, and again gestured Harold forward.

Harold entered the room and abruptly stopped only a couple of feet past the doorway. There, across the room, lying on a bed, was his wife. Lillian was covered up to her chest by fine bed linen, and her head, with hair undone, lay on a goose down pillow. She was propped up slightly by that and other pillows, and in her arms, bundled in a pink blanket, she held a baby. The queen saw Harold and smiled. "Come meet your daughter, Harold," she said weakly.

Harold moved forward slowly, carefully, as if walking on eggshells. Off to one side of the room a group of experienced nurses who had helped with the birth looked at each other knowingly and smiled, not minding that the king didn't even seem to be noticing their existence. Once Harold reached Lillian's bedside he looked down at their child. The little pink-faced baby, with fair strands of red hair lacing the top of her head, was indeed beautiful. Her eyes were closed, and she appeared to be napping, but then she lifted one of her tiny hands up to her face and, after an initial clumsy attempt at trying to find it, stuck her thumb in her mouth and started sucking on it.

"My God, Lillian," Harold said hoarsely. "She's…she's…"

"Fiona," Lillian said. "Meaning fair and comely."

"Yes," Harold said. "Fiona." They had decided on the name some time before, in the event a daughter was born, and it turned out that they had chosen well: she could not have fairer or more comely.

Harold shifted his gaze from his daughter to his wife. She looked back up at him with her usual kind, wise, benevolent gaze. But now her eyes seemed to have an extra sparkle about them, even though her voice sounded tired and her body seemed fatigued. "Lillian," he said, "you can forget all the fairy godmothers and wizards and witches and other sorcerers that gravitate around us. What you've done here today…" his gaze shifted back to his daughter "…_that_ is a true miracle… _That_…is true magic."

Lillian smiled more deeply. Harold leaned down and they shared a kiss that lasted for several seconds…until Fiona started making sounds like she was about to cry.

"Here," Lillian said, starting to lift their daughter toward him, "take her."

"No!" he said. "I couldn't! I might—"

"You'll be fine," she said chuckling. "Just keep supporting her head, like this…now keep your other arm beneath her…there, you're doing splendidly."

Harold found himself holding his daughter and looking down with awe at the little angel. She started to squirm and made more sounds as if she were about to cry and Harold instinctively started bouncing her in his arms.

"Gently!" Lillian said, and then with a little less urgency, "just do it gently."

Harold nodded and did so. Fiona settled down and again looked to be on the verge of sleep. He remembered the way Dama had held Charming, and now he understood her a bit better. Unfortunately, he also understood something else, something that he had been mulling for a while and which now crystallized.

He couldn't promise Fiona to Charming. He simply couldn't stand the thought of binding this godsend to the son of such a creature as Dama.

"Why don't you take her out and show the people the new heir to the kingdom, at least until I bear you a son?" Lillian suggested.

Harold looked down at her. She looked even more exhausted, but still seemed to be watching her husband and child with a very special contentment.

"Are you sure it would be all right?" he asked.

"Um-hum," Lillian said, nodding.

Harold turned to the doctor. "Just have her back soon," the physician said.

"Very well," Harold agreed. He looked back at Lillian once more, who nodded toward the doorway. He nodded back, and then headed toward it.

A short while later Harold emerged through the doorway to the chamber where Dama, the chamberlain, and the jester were all waiting. "People," Harold said, "meet Princess Fiona."

The three of them flocked around the princess, oo-ing and ah-ing and congratulating Harold again on siring such a beautiful girl.

"Here, little one," the jester said, shaking one of his hat's bells near her, "would you like to play with this?"

"Get that away, fool," the chamberlain reproached him. "Don't you know that's a choking hazard?"

Every so often Harold's gaze met Dama's and he had to look away – the look in her eyes seemed both knowing and accusatory, as if she were reading his mind. Eventually he could take it no longer. "Gentlemen," he said to the two men, "thank you again very much for your kindness. Right now, however, I have something I need to discuss with Da— uh, with the Fairy Godmother. So if, you would excuse us…"

A few moments later Harold found himself alone in the chamber with Dama…and his daughter. He unconsciously pulled Fiona a little closer to him. Dama stood aside, arms crossed, watching him suspiciously, as he made sure the doors were closed and locked, careful not to drop Fiona as he did so. Then he approached her.

"Dama—" began.

"Fairy Godmother," Dama corrected him, her tone icy.

"Oh. Uh, right. Fairy…uh, Godmother. I think we need to talk about—"

"You're reneging, aren't you?"

"Um…what?"

"On your promise that your daughter…Fiona…is to wed my son."

"Yes, well, um, I wouldn't call it _reneging_, actually. It's more like, well, an adjustment to—"

There was a brief angry buzz of wings and in a flash Dama was only a foot way from him, her wand directly before his face, its white tip glowing. "You _do_ realize that I'd be perfectly within my rights to put an end to your happily ever after right now, don't you? You slimy little toad."

"N-now s-s-see here!" Harold stammered, terrified, trying to force some trace of metal into his voice. Fiona, sensing something wrong, began to squirm uncomfortably. Harold continued, "I'm just t-trying to be honest and up front with you now, and not let you go on expecting—"

"Expecting what? Expecting you to keep your word?" she scoffed, and pulled back slightly. "Oh, you needn't worry about that. Frankly, I _never_ expected you to keep your word. I'd sooner trust a snake in the forest than the word of one of you royals."

"I'm not saying she can't marry Charming! Just that…that he'll need to compete for her along with all her other suitors—"

"Right, while you poison her against him!"

"I wouldn't do that! I swear!"

"Liar!"

"Please!" Harold objected. "You forget who you're talking to—"

"Oh, I'm quite aware of who I'm talking to. The great frog king, who rose from muck and mire to marry the love of his life and become ruler of Far Far Away. Oh, but that origin's a secret, isn't it? Well, what if that origin were exposed? What if I undid all that I did? How long do you think you'd last before you were laughed out of the kingdom? And keep the love of your life after the scales had been dropped from her eyes and she realizes what you are? Ha!"

Harold's eyes widened. "You wouldn't!"

Dama crossed her arms again. "No," she said reluctantly, "I wouldn't. At least not now. Like it or not, Harold, our fates are tied. My son _will_ wed your daughter. Unfortunately, since I can't trust you to keep your word, it appears I must take more drastic steps to ensure that outcome." Her eyes fell on the baby in his arms.

Harold's eyes widened in fear. "Wha—what do you mean?"

"Harold," she said, still looking at Fiona, "you've forced me to do something I _really_ don't want to do."

"No!" Harold said, "leave her alone!"

Harold began to turn away, but Dama whipped her wand toward his feet. "Stay!" she commanded, and Harold found he was no longer able to move his feet; it was as if they were nailed to the floor. He opened his mouth, intending to call out for his guards, but Dama whipped her wand toward his mouth. "Silence!" she commanded, and suddenly Harold's lips adhered together as if they were glued.

Harold found himself helpless, unable to move from where he stood or to call for help. Fiona squirmed in his tightened grip. The king stared in horror as Dama slowly walked over until she stood directly before them. She looked down at the newborn for a few moments, and then closed her eyes, and seemed to be concentrating on something. Then Dama's wings started fluttering and she rose some five feet from the floor, murmuring something in a strange language that Harold didn't understand. She hovered there, and then held up both arms, forming a "V." One hand still held the wand, whose white tip glowed fiercely. Then Harold noticed a few wisps of some strange yellow mist appeared above her head.

"_By night one way_…" Dama said, her eyes still closed, and started waving her wand in wide circles. The mist grew thicker and started swirling about her in relation to the movement of the wand.

"…_by day another_…" she continued.

The mist grew thicker still, and sparkles appeared in it.

"…_this shall be the norm_," Dama concluded, then opened her eyes and looked down at Fiona, and then pointed the wand toward her.

The mist descended. Harold watched in horror, trying to call out but still unable to open his mouth, as the mist twirled about Fiona for a moment, and then seems to absorb into her. The newborn briefly had an odd, green glow, but that faded, and she appeared just as she did before. But Fiona had noticed something, for she started crying.

"There," Dama said, alighting again on the floor. Her face appeared to resume its 'benevolent Godmother' facade as she smiled and said, "All done."

Harold tried to say something but was still unable to open his mouth.

"Ah!" Dama said, and then waved her want about him. "There," she said. "Feel free to move about the chamber."

"You—you _madwoman_!" Harold cried, shaking with anger. "What have you done? I'll kill you!"

Dama laughed dismissively. "Oh, really?" she said. "Well, in regards to killing me, even if you tried and succeeded, do you know what would happen? First, the service I rendered you will be terminated. Once I'm gone, Harold, you return to your amphibian state with all the repercussions I mentioned earlier. Second, you lose the chance to undo the spell I just placed on your daughter."

"What…spell?" he asked, still shaking, but now more in trepidation than anger.

"Just something to seal the deal we already made, since I can't trust you otherwise. It should be somewhat familiar to you, but I've been much kinder to Fiona than the curse you suffered. Every day Fiona will remain beautiful: just the kind of daughter to make her parents proud. But between sundown and sunrise, she will transmute into an ugly ogre."

"An _ogre_?" Harold said, any color left in his face draining. "My God. How could you _do_ that to an innocent child?"

"Remember, Harold, if it weren't for me that child wouldn't exist at all."

"But…an _ogre_?"

"Yes. Oh, I thought about a frog – like father, like daughter, and all that – but an ogre is so much better. A frog people could, well, overlook. But an ogre – a big, green, smelly, unsightly beast – now, _there's_ something more difficult to hide. But hide her you will, Harold. Or would you have your daughter held up to ridicule and derision? Imagine how that would make her feel. And imagine how that would reflect on you and Lillian."

Harold's teeth clenched. "Take it off," he demanded. "I swear she'll marry your son. Just take it off."

She laughed, and then said, "And I should trust your word now, why? But fear not, Harold. I _shall_ take it off – or arrange for it to be taken off – in due time."

"What do you mean, 'in due time'?"

"In time to marry my son."

"But…that won't be for _years_!"

"True. But I can commiserate, Harold. It will seem a long time for me as well."

"This is outrageous! I'll…I'll find someone _else_ to take it off!"

She laughed yet again. "Good luck with that, Harold. I made sure that this is a particularly potent spell. Only I can cast its remedy. But by all means, try. Try, try, again. Then, once you and Lillian are desperate enough, come see me. I can make it all better…in time."

"Why, you—I'll break you!" Harold sputtered.

"You'll do no such thing, you pathetic little man," she retorted, dropping her smile. "If you value your own happily ever after _or_ harbor hope for your daughter's future, you'll do just _what_ I say _when_ I say it. Let's get that straight right now, _Sire_. You may be king, but I am the power that made that possible. I can take it away any time that I wish. Fortunately for you, it is in my interest that you remain on that throne...for now. And, again, if anything happens to me, then you revert to your creature state, and if anything happens to prevent Charming from marrying your daughter, then Fiona will die half a monster."

Harold could only stare, dumbfounded, at Dama. He tried to think of something – anything – any _way_ – out of his predicament, but he could not. Dama saw this, and a new, lopsided, sardonic smile creased her face. "Well, now," she said. "You'd best present your beautiful little girl to your adoring public…but it's getting late, so make sure you're finished before the sun goes down."

"But what – how will I explain what happened to cause her to…"

Dama shrugged. "Say that for some mysterious reason she was just born that way," she suggested. "Or that a vengeful witch suddenly appeared and cast a spell on her. Whatever – use your imagination. Just don't _dare_ to think to implicate _me_, Harold. Very bad things would happen then. Very bad for _all_ of us."

Dama then pointed her wand at the door leading to the main part of the castle; it unlocked itself and swung open. "Your public awaits," she said mockingly.

Casting one last hateful glance at Dama, which she treated with due disdain, Harold trudged by her and out the door. As he made his way up to the balustrade overlooking the courtyard where thousands of his subjects milled about, waiting for word on the pending royal birth, he again bounced Fiona lightly, as she had again begun crying. Eventually he appeared on the balustrade, several stories above his people. The generally mulling sound that he had heard just before his appearance hushed as people looked up to see him.

Harold started to speak but found that his throat had gone dry. He cleared it and tried again. "Good citizens of the kingdom of Far Far Away," he announced, "I present to you your new princess and current heir to the throne, the beautiful Princess Fiona!"

Harold carefully held Fiona as far up as he safely could as the people cheered and applauded. Fiona, frightened and confused, cried more loudly.

As Harold held his daughter, his eyes drifted to the horizon, where the sun was getting very low in the sky. The multi-colored hues of the clouds about the descending orb would have appeared beautiful in other circumstances, but now the image only filled him with dread.

Harold eventually lowered his daughter and, after waving an acknowledgement to the crowd, tucked her back securely in the blanket in his arms as he turned and headed back into the castle. After what seemed a very long walk he was back in the birthing room with Lillian.

Lillian had fallen asleep, the doctor standing beside her bedside watching her to make sure she remained all right. The nurses were all gone. When the physician saw Harold appear in the doorway he leaned down and gently shook the queen to awaken her. Her eyes opened and, after looking drowsily about the room for a moment, they fixed on her husband and child. She smiled benignly. Harold walked slowly to her bedside.

"How did it go?" Lillian asked.

"What?" Harold, distracted, said hoarsely, his throat dry again as he noted the dimming light.

"With the subjects. What did they think of their new princess?" she explained as she reached for her baby.

"Oh, they were wildly enthusiastic," he said, forcing a smile. After hesitating a moment, wanting to say something but not quite able to bring himself to do so, he gently handed Fiona to her mother. Once back in her arms, Fiona stopped crying.

"No wonder," Lillian said, stroking Fiona's cheek with a finger. "She's such a heavenly child."

Harold just stared. He so wanted to say something – to warn his wife somehow of what was about to happen – but he just could find neither the words nor the courage; he just stood there in mute, stark dread. The suffering of frightened indecision was relieved soon, though, as the sun sank below the horizon. Suddenly the golden, sparkling, swirling mist appeared around the child in Lillian's arms.

"What on earth—" Lillian said, at first startled, but increasingly frightened as the mist grew thicker and surrounded Fiona. Lillian looked up at Harold, her eyes wide with terror. "What's happening to our daughter?" she cried.

Harold could only stare, speechless. He was frightened, also. Frightened for what was happening to Fiona. But frightened, too, that Lillian might tell from his demeanor that he was involved with this, and that it was, in a way, his fault. Shame duly added its unwelcome presence to the emotions plaguing the king.

Lillian looked back down as the mist suddenly dissipated. Her beautiful daughter was no longer there. In her place was a larger, heavier, olive green ogre baby, with bulbous features replacing Fiona's dainty ones. The only hints that it might be the same being were its streaks of red hair. Lillian stared in pure horror as two unnaturally long ears unfurled themselves from either side of the creature's head. The little ogre's eyes opened and then seemed to focus on Lillian. It smiled, gurgled, and reached its chubby arms up toward its mother.

Lillian screamed.

* * *

Things had played out much as Dama had predicted. Over the years Harold and Lillian had turned to a number of magic users – all sworn to strict secrecy – in an attempt to rid their daughter of her dreaded curse. Some tried and failed, while others, after careful examination, admitted there was nothing they could do. Even the exertions of the then highly touted wizard who ran the magic department at Worcestershire Academy proved fruitless, and the frustrating effort had left him such a wreck that he never fully recovered. Several years later he suffered a level three fatigue and had to resign.

Meanwhile, Dama's – or rather, the Fairy Godmother's – reputation, wealth, and influence only grew. Since she was no longer in need of Harold's assistance to succeed, only his willful ignorance of her activities, the two avoided each other except on social occasions when their celebrity status required their mutual presence, and then their interactions were cold and obligatory. Lillian seemed to sense something amiss, but Harold avoided or deflected any discussion about her. On retrospect, Harold thought, perhaps he should have confided in Lillian at the outset, and trusted her. But his fear and shame held him back, and the longer he hid the truth from her, the stronger his fear and shame grew.

Eventually, when all else failed, the royal couple had indeed turned to the "Fairy Godmother." Lillian seemed to wonder at Harold's reticence at not doing so earlier, but held her tongue. And then the Godmother had pronounced the solution to break Fiona's frightful enchantment, but at what a cost – to lock her away in a Dragon-guarded tower for years until some brave knight might arrive, rescue her, and share a kiss with her. As Dama tauntingly confided in Harold when Lillian was out of earshot, this provided the exit to the spell that she had cast that day in the castle, with the closing incantation, "Until you find True Love's First Kiss, and then, take love's true form." It was obvious and understood between the king and Dama who that "True Love", that rescuer, was meant to be. And so Harold had no choice; he had to prepare his daughter for her exile, and to encourage her to look forward to the day that she might be rescued by her handsome "Prince Charming." Harold privately scoffed at the ironic expression. Only Dama would have such hubris to literally name her son "Charming."

Harold wondered if Dama had some sort of secret arrangement with the dragon to allow her son to pass; he found it hard to believe that she would place him in such a dangerous situation otherwise, however brave and skilled he grew to be. That led Harold to also wonder if Fiona's imprisonment was a necessity, or simply a way to ensure there would be no competition for her "True Love" until Charming arrived. But, frustratingly, it didn't matter. Dama held all the cards, and whether or not she was bluffing was irrelevant; Harold had to play the hand he was dealt through to the end.

And as for poor Fiona – Harold thought back with regret at the way he saw his daughter during the night, and the way he treated her then. Consciously, of course, he knew none of it was her fault, and that he should have treated her as kindly in the evening as during the day. But whenever he beheld her ghastly ogress image, it only reminded him of the horror of her birthday, of his own hated inhuman origins and secret, and of his impotence in Dama's presence. He spent as little time with his daughter when she was in that state as possible. He forbade her any interaction with anyone else during the nighttime hours except for her parents and a select few trusted staff who were told of her plight. She spent most evenings closeted in her bedroom, playing with her dolls where her toy knight slew toy dragons and toy ogres and was rewarded by the fair toy princess with a toy favor. Harold had taken up Dama's suggestion and told Fiona that her condition was due to a wicked witch's curse – when he thought about it, was it really a lie? – and even passed along the words that Dama had used in her incantations: _By night one way, by day another, this shall be the norm…until you find True Love's first kiss, and then, take love's true form_. By the time they sent her away, Fiona despised her ogress self as much as Harold did, likely more. But was that really a bad thing? Wouldn't that just stiffen her resolve to see the ordeal through, more dedicated to bear whatever period of isolation was required to rid herself of the nocturnal beast? Harold tried to rationalize that he had actually helped her in that regard. In his heart, though, he knew his motives were more base, and it grieved him.

* * *

A bolt of lightning somewhere in the distance and the crack of thunder that followed shortly thereafter interrupted Harold's reminiscences and brought him back to the present. Dama's henchman was still standing a few yards away. He reached down, still watching Harold out of the corner of his eye, and picked up another stone. He rose, rolled the stone around in his hand for a moment while looking at the king and then turned toward the pond and sent it skipping across. Harold licked his suddenly dry lips. For some reason Dama's plan had taken too long, and Lillian, who had been reluctant to agree to the arrangement to begin with, had been urging Harold for some time to join her in demanding its suspension, and to bring Fiona home, half-ogre or not. Harold, with years of guilt nagging him worse than Lillian's pleas, eventually relented. He knew it would not please Dama. But in a way, he didn't care – if it prompted either the end of Fiona's curse, or the end of his own pathetic, guilty existence living the life of a king while his daughter rotted in some tower – either would be a relief. Now, however, standing so close to Dama's henchman, he wasn't so sure of his resolve.

Just then he heard a vehicle approaching down the leaf-strewn cart path. He turned to see a royal coach appear, pulled by a team of fine white horses. As it pulled to a stop a door opened. Lillian leaned out, a serious expression on her face. "Harold," she called, "you need to get in."

"Uh, yes, right away, darling," he said, and quickly moved to do what she'd requested.

As Harold boarded the carriage Lillian looked around him at the henchman, who continued watching the royal couple. "Who is that?" she asked, curious.

"Oh, uh, just another nature lover, I suppose," Harold said uncomfortably as he sat down beside her.

Lillian raised a questioning eyebrow, but let it fall dismissively after a moment. She looked up at the driver, commanded, "Drive on to the destination I told you before," and then closed the door and leaned back in her seat.

As the coach pulled away, Harold asked, "So, where are we going?"

"We're going to free our daughter," the queen stated.


	6. Deals with Evils Present

**Layer 6: Deals with Evils Present**

Harold's head jerked toward his wife. "What do you mean, 'free our daughter'?" he asked.

"We've been contacted by another magic user who said he could put an end to Fiona's curse," Lillian replied, looking down at a tri-folded letter she held in her hand.

Harold glanced out the back window and noted that Dama's henchman was walking diagonally across the cart path away from the pond, his eyes fixed on the royals' departing coach. Might he have a horse nearby, and might he attempt to follow them? Harold turned, leaned his head out of the passenger window, and called to the driver, "Could you speed up the pace, please?"

"Yes, Sire," the driver said, and a moment later the horses were moving a fast canter.

Harold settled back into his seat and looked closer at the letter in Lillian's hands. He noted that it had previously been sealed with a wax stamp – wax that was the color of gold. The two broken halves, when put together, bore the crest of the family of Midas.

"It's a letter of recommendation," she explained, turning toward her husband and handing it to him. "It was delivered this morning by a…representative of the magic user."

"What 'magic user'?" Harold asked impatiently, snatching the letter.

Lillian sighed. "Rumpelstiltskin is his name," she said.

"Rumpelstiltskin?" he repeated incredulously. "That little villain who spins straw into gold?"

"No, the younger one," Lillian said, "the one with the contracts."

"Bah, I've heard of him. He's even worse!" Harold scoffed, feeling disappointed. "Really, Lillian, I understand how you feel, but how could you trust such a disreputable person to even _tell_ him about our daughter's curse—"

"I didn't need to. He already knew," she said. "This morning one of his representatives flew into the castle grounds and—"

"_Flew?_"

Lillian sighed. "Yes. She was a witch."

Harold just stared at her for a moment, and then said, "So…let me get this straight. This witch – greenish gray skin, hooked nose, dark gown and pointed hat, and riding a broom, I presume?"

Lillian nodded resignedly.

"This witch," Harold continued, "showed up, said that this Rumpelstiltskin had learned of Fiona's curse, and was offering to end it?"

"Yes," Lillian said, and gesturing to the paper in Harold's hands, "and she gave me that letter."

Harold sighed and then read the letter. "So," he said when he'd finished, "King Midas vouches for the efficacy of Rumpelstiltskin's magic. Ah, but look here: 'Just be careful what you deal for, for you shall surely get it!'"

"Oh, so what?" Lillian said, her patience wearing thin. "What we want is very specific: and end to Fiona's curse and imprisonment. If we sign a deal and he grants us that, what is the harm? Who gives a blast about his bad reputation if he can do that?"

Harold considered her logic. "Perhaps," he conceded, "still, the Fairy Godmother asked us to wait a week—"

"And then disappears from Far Far Away for days without a word as to why. Frankly, Harold, I'm fed up with that woman's assurances. 'Just a little while longer, dear'…'You must have patience, dear'…'I'm sure we'll hear of her rescue any day, dear'. Her assurances are like the warnings from the boy who cried 'wolf'."

"Ah!" Harold noted, "But the boy who cried 'wolf' was eventually correct!"

"And so is a broken clock, twice a day," she rejoined. "Oh, Harold. This is our _daughter_ we're talking about. She _trusted_ us. And now, after so many years…my God, we wouldn't sentence _criminals_ to the type of imprisonment she's suffered."

Harold mulled over her words. "Perhaps," he relented. If the devious little imp _could_ release Fiona from her curse, then beyond the great joy that would lead to, it would also mean that Fiona would not be bound to marry Charming, a prospect that Harold had been dreading anyway, as it would not only bind his poor daughter to the narcissist son of that devilish Dama, it would eventually turn his kingdom over to them as well. "Very well," Harold said. "What does Rumpelstiltskin want in return for freeing our daughter? Anything short of the kingdom itself, and he shall have it."

Lillian bit her lip. "That's…what he wants."

"Excuse me? _What_…is what he wants?"

"The kingdom itself."

"_What?_"

"That's his price. He'll take nothing less."

"But…but…that's _absurd!_" Harold sputtered. "Even if he fulfilled his part of the bargain, we can't just turn our kingdom over to someone like that! We have responsibility to our subjects! Not to mention it would be robbing Fiona of her birthright."

"Harold, right now we are robbing Fiona of her very _life!_" Lillian said. "As for the kingdom…yes, I understand perfectly what you're saying. But it's not like he could run roughshod over the peoples' rights anyway, even if he were so inclined. Ours is not an _absolute_ monarchy."

"That's true," Harold conceded. Their position had become more ceremonial rather than administrative over the years. Plus there was the Manga Carpal – the document meant to 'stay the hand of a whimsical monarch', granting the people certain rights and holding the king's actions accountable to the Council of Barons.

"And, if Fiona isn't freed," Lillian continued, "then how much longer would our familial reign last anyway? We're both getting old, Harold. And…" she blushed and looked away, then continued softly "…and she is the last of your bloodline. I've not even been able to bear you another daughter, let alone a son."

"Lillian," Harold said, his voice also soft, as he laid his hand on hers. "I'm sure that's not your fault. More than likely it's mine." Here Harold was sure he was speaking the truth, as he strongly suspected that the inability of the couple to produce further children was part of Dama's spellcraft, to ensure that Fiona remained the only blood link to succession. "But…Lillian, _think_ about what's being proposed here."

"I have," she said, then turned and faced him again. "And I've been thinking of our daughter. My conclusions are clear; if you do not accept this offer, I shall attempt to free Fiona myself…directly."

Harold's brow wrinkled in bewilderment. "What do you mean?"

"I shall don armor and attempt to rescue our daughter like all the knights before who have attempted to do so. It may not make her entirely human, but at least it would end her imprisonment."

Harold's mouth dropped open. He stared into her eyes, hoping this was a bad jest, but found only hard resolution there. "Lillian, don't be absurd," he said.

"Absurd or not, that's what I shall do," she said with conviction.

"You'll be killed!"

"Likely. But perhaps not. I'm not bereft of fighting skills myself, you know."

"No! I shall not allow it!"

"To stop me, then you would have to lock _me_ away also. I shall not continue to live the life of monarch while our daughter rots. My conscience will no longer allow it."

Guilt rushed over Harold. If Lillian thought _she_ had a tortured conscience…still, he felt he had valid concerns. "But if Rumpelstiltskin doesn't end her curse—"

"Then the contract would be void, and we'd be left the same as we are now," she said. "Isn't that the worst that could happen?"

He frowned while he considered a while longer, weighing all factors – emotional and practical – and then, tilting toward the former, at last he said, "Very well, Lillian. I'll do it."

"Oh, Harold!" she said with grateful relief, taking his hands in hers. "You'll see, you won't regret doing this!"

"I already regret doing this," he mumbled. "But I'd regret _not_ doing it even more."

There was another streak of lightening and clap of thunder as storm clouds blotted the already darkening evening sky. It set such an appropriate mood, Harold thought sarcastically.

Harold tried to assure himself that he was making the right decision, or at least the best he could under the circumstances. There was no _good_ decision to be had, only a choice among evils. Was he truly choosing the lesser one?

As the coach pulled up to the gates of the "Crone's Nest Carriage Park," Harold felt his resolve start to fade. Two witches opened the creaking rusty iron gates, and the coach started meandering down the rutty dirt path between dilapidated homes made from old carriages or other materials, with menacing looking denizens, nearly all witches, who stared at the royals from their yards with expressions ranging from contempt to hostility. Harold began to regret not bringing a contingent of secret service knights along with them. He normally would have, but things were happening so quickly, and he had been in such a hurry to elude Dama's henchman. Harold began to fear that he may have been in such a hurry to escape the frying pan that he'd leapt into a fire. But the witches simply watched and stayed their distance…for now.

"I'm sorry I didn't summon any guards," Lillian said, seeming to read part of his mind. "The witch asked me not to. She said it would be too intimidating and upset the aura or some such."

"And you _believed_ her?"

"I don't know," she said, shrugging. "But I didn't think it would be wise to advertise our willingness to bargain with such a person anyway, in case the deal fell through. I _did_ tell Sir Hoariman where we would be going, but to keep it to himself, and to see that we weren't interrupted for anything short of war or word of our daughter's rescue."

Hoariman, the head of the monarchial protection service, was a good man, Harold knew, and one of the few entrusted with the secret of Fiona's curse. Harold just hoped Hoariman wouldn't be in the position of having to affect _his and Lillian's_ rescue before this business was done.

Eventually they stopped in from of a curiously egg-shaped carriage with hand-drawn signs in its unkempt yard with proclamations such as, "Magical Contracts", "Deal of a Lifetime", and "Dreams Can Come True!"

"I don't know about this, Lillian," Harold said, his doubts reasserting themselves. "The Fairy Godmother said _only_ True Love's kiss could break Fiona's curse."

"I don't trust that woman, Harold," Lillian stated flatly. "This may be our last hope. Besides, he does come highly recommended by King Midas."

"But to put our daughter's _life_ into the hands of such a person?" he protested. "He's devious, he's deceitful, he's…"

Harold looked into Lillian's face and again saw the pleading expression of forlorn hope there. Harold sighed. "He's a possibility," he relented. "Very well."

Lillian squeezed his hand gratefully as the driver's attendant opened the coach door. As they stepped down onto the bare dirt one of the witches hurried over to the door to Rumpelstiltskin's carriage/home.

"Ahem…greetings, royal Sires," she said, bowed briefly, and pulled on the door handle. It didn't open. She tried again. It still didn't open.

Harold and Lillian tried to keep forced smiles on their faces as they shared uneasy glances with each other, and struggled to retain the smiles as they looked about themselves nervously at the circle of witches intently watching them.

The witch at the door gave an embarrassed smile, said, "Um, excuse me," and then grabbed the handle with both hands and jerked backward. The door flew open and the witch lost her balance and tumbled into a mud puddle beside Rumpelstiltskin's carriage. She quickly got up, rushed beside the open doorway, and, ignoring her dripping gown, grabbed the door handle to hold the door open, and announced, "Welcome to the magical chamber of Rumpelstiltskin, where happiness is only an inkblot away." She then bowed and gestured them inside.

"Well," Harold whispered into Lillian's ear, "this is it."

The royal couple moved forward. As they passed the witch, Lillian asked, "Aren't you the…representative who met us at the castle?"

"Yes, Queen Lillian" the witch replied.

"Booboo isn't it?"

"Um, Baba, actually, Queen Lillian."

"Ah! Yes. Sorry. Well, thank you, Baba."

"You're welcome, Queen Lillian."

Lillian nodded, and then turned to Harold. "Are you ready?" she whispered.

"As I ever shall be, I suppose," he whispered back, his regrets about acceding to his wife's arguments growing deeper.

He paused to allow his wife to enter first, since it was too narrow for both of them. The steps onto which she trod, slightly rotted, creaked and bent ominously, but held. After Lillian had completely ascended the steps, Harold carefully followed her into the imp's carriage.

Harold stepped up beside his wife and found himself looking with her around the cramped confines of the carriage's interior. It was not only a carriage _and_ a home, but an office, with various scrolls organized in a second-hand cabinet behind an aged wooden desk. The place smelled of musty paper, mold, and…bird residue. But there was no one there.

There was the sound of the quick scampering of feet behind them, and then Baba stepped up beside Harold, turned to face the royal couple, and, gesturing woodenly toward the interior, recited, "Most distinguished and honored guests, welcome to the abode of the wishbringer, the shepherd of your dreams, the one, the only…"

There was a bright flash from between the royal couple and the desk, sending Harold and Lillian into each others' arms, each with a short shriek. Then, when the smoke cleared, they saw —

"Rumpelstiltskin!" a little unruly haired, pointy-eared imp said with a flourish from the seat he had suddenly appeared in behind his desk. A bolt of lightening and clap of thunder from outside accented his dramatic entrance.

Baba left, closing the door behind her and leaving the royals alone with the imp. Harold and Lillian, each slightly embarrassed by their reaction to what was basically a simple magician's trick, released each other as Rumpelstiltskin scampered from behind his desk. Harold saw he was wearing plain work clothes and odd curly-toed shoes.

"Welcome, Your Magnificences!" Rumpelstiltskin said enthusiastically as he approached the two. "You can't _believe_ what an _honor_ it is to finally meet the king and queen of the…well, the most celebrated kingdom in all the land!" He turned to Lillian. "Mrs. Highness," he said, taking her hand and kissing it, but keeping his beady eyes on her the whole time.

Harold saw Lillian's attempt to suppress her revulsion at the feel of the imp's lips, even as she managed to respond with a polite, "How do you do?"

"And now for the esteemed King Harold!" Rumpelstiltskin said, holding his hand up toward Harold. "How are you today, Highness?"

"It's…'Your Majesty'…actually," Harold said.

"Oh, sure, sorry 'Your Majesty', whatever you say," Rumpelstiltskin said, still holding his hand upthrust toward Harold. "Trust me, I know how important a name can be to a person."

Harold nodded, and ignoring the imp's ignorance of protocol, took the small, thin hand, and shook it. The handshake was firm and confident enough, but there was an odd clamminess that put Harold off somehow. As Harold drew his hand back, he felt as if he'd just petted a snake.

"And I _love_ what you've done with the kingdom since you took it over," Rumpelstiltskin said as he turned and headed back around his desk, "you can trust me to keep it in good shape, once we take care of the business of your daughter's curse." He glanced back as he was about to look through his contracts. "Please, please, have a seat!" he invited.

"You think…you are competent and capable enough to run our kingdom," Harold said.

"Of course!" Rumpelstiltskin replied, not looking back as he pawed through bunches of scrolls. "Now, let me just find where I put that contract…"

Harold looked over at Lillian, quite aware of the doubt that was showing in his face. His wife's, however, still held that pleading expression, silently egging him onward. He nodded, and the two took seats in old and not entirely steady wooden chairs set before the desk.

"Just how did you learn about our daughter's curse?" Harold asked.

"Oh, trade secret," Rumpelstiltskin said. "I keep my ear to the ground. Ahah!" The imp triumphantly pulled out one of the scrolls and turned back to the royal couple.

"And you think you can get around the stipulation of True Love's First Kiss when all of the finest magic users in the land failed?" Harold felt himself warming to the challenge, and tried to ignore the warning glance that Lillian was sending him.

"With due respect, Your _Majesty_," Rumpelstiltskin replied, with a hint of reproach, "you didn't try _all_ the finest magic users, for you didn't try _me!_" But then suddenly the imp was all smiles again. "But hey, we all make mistakes! So Fiona spent a few more years imprisoned than she needed to. That's all lava under the bridge now, right? The important thing is, you don't want her to waste any _more_ time away from home. Think about having your daughter back with you, how nice it would be if she were returned to you, ogre free, a beautiful woman, twenty-four seven, someone that would make you proud."

Harold reluctantly found himself imaging just what Rumpelstiltskin was saying, and he felt a lump start in his throat as he did so.

"Can't you just see it now?" Rumpelstiltskin continued, his voice now tender and empathetic, almost melodic. "A carriage arrives in front of your luxurious retirement castle by the sea, and Fiona gets out. You recognize your beautiful young daughter immediately, as she does you, not just from mere looks, since it's been so long, but from that special, unique bond that parents share with their offspring. You stare at each other for a moment, and then your only child smiles with joy and races across the immaculate lawn with long, loping strides into the waiting arms of your wife and yourself. Won't that be wonderful? Won't that magical moment be worth a king's ransom?"

Whether some sort of witchcraft or his own imagination, Harold truly could see the scene in his mind just as Rumpelstiltskin described it. Harold felt Lillian's hand again clasp his. He looked over and saw a tear running down her cheek, and then noticed there was one running down his own as well. "P-perhaps," he admitted, wiping the tear away with slight embarrassment.

Suddenly a large white goose jumped between the monarchs, honking loudly and startling the royal pair.

"Down, Fifi, get down!" Rumpelstiltskin ordered, and Harold watched the obnoxious bird slink away somewhere beneath the table. When the king looked back up, he saw that Rumpelstiltskin was sliding the unfurled scroll with elaborate writing on it across the table to him. "As you can see, everything's in order," the imp said.

"So you'll put an end to our daughter's curse," Harold said, still not quite believing that this little creature could succeed where so many had failed before.

Rumpelstiltskin smiled a not entirely pleasant smile, and said, "And in return, you sign the kingdom of Far Far Away over to me."

Another flash of lightening appeared outside, and thunder boomed.

Harold had one more rush of misgiving, and turned to his wife. "Lillian, this is _madness!_" he said in a whisper that came out a bit louder than he'd wished.

"What choice do we have, Harold?" she pleaded. "Fiona has been locked in that tower far too long."

The choice, Harold knew, was to simply decline the preposterous notion of turning his kingdom over to this little imp and to wait and to trust in Dama, as he had waiting and trusting for so many years, waiting for his daughter to be freed – if 'free' could truly be applied to the bearer of the title 'Mrs. Fiona Charming'.

"It's not like she's getting any younger," Rumpelstiltskin injected casually from his seat.

Harold glanced over the contract. He saw the key clause there: '_The signing of this contract will result in the immediate, complete, and permanent removal of the cause of Princess Fiona's unhappiness and imprisonment_.' That surely referred to her curse. Its complete and permanent removal? Just like that? What a joy, what a relief that would be! Still—

"But to sign over our entire _kingdom?_" Harold protested once more.

Surprisingly, Rumpelstiltskin sighed impatiently. "Well," he said, "if your kingdom is worth more to you than your daughter…" He then reached over and started to slide the contract away.

Harold saw it literally slipping away – a chance to finally end Fiona's curse without having to rely on the 'good faith' of the vile Dama and her self-absorbed progeny. Harold realized he was dealing with a choice of evils here, and both had their eyes set on his kingdom. Would this little being _really_ be worse for Far Far Away than Charming and his scheming mother? Harold wasn't so sure. One thing that he _was_ sure about was that he was tired of Fiona being in the crosshairs and having to pay for the sins of her father. Although he wished he could tear the contract up in the face of the smug little runt, if he were offering to free her now—

Harold rose and slapped his hand on top of the contract, staying it in place. Staring at Rumpelstiltskin, he stated, "_Nothing_ is worth more to us than our daughter."

Rumpelstiltskin smiled. "I knew you'd see things my way," he said.

Harold sat down heavily and pulled the contract back before him. He felt Lillian slide her hand into his again and squeeze. He looked over and saw her smiling reassuringly at him. He returned the smile weakly.

Meanwhile Rumpelstiltskin was making preparations for the signing. He closed the shutters and pulled out a bottle of invisible ink, part of the label worn off, and plopped it on the table. Sitting back down, he called, "Jump, Fifi, jump!" The large goose leapt onto his lap, and he yanked a tail feather out, causing the goose to honk a protest. The imp then dipped the goose feather, now a quill, into the ink, which trailed a golden luminescence as he pulled it out. He then held out the quill to Harold. The king took it, looked down at the contract, and was about to sign.

Suddenly Harold thought he heard something behind him, where the door stood, as if someone had just burst in. He quickly turned, but there was no one there. He glanced over at Lillian, who had apparently done the same thing.

"Did _you_ hear something?" he asked her.

"I…I _thought_ I did, but…" she shook her head. "I suppose I was mistaken."

"If so, we were _both_ mistaken," Harold said, and turned toward Rumpelstiltskin. "Did you hear—" he began, but saw that the imp was sitting with his head leaning back, and his eyes closed.

"Are you all right?" Harold asked.

Rumpelstiltskin straightened his head and opened his eyes. "Huh?" he said, apparently disoriented, then, "Oh. Ah-yeah. Sorry, Your Majesties, I was just contemplating the responsibilities I'm about to assume, and all that. I really am taking this quite seriously, you know."

Harold raised an eyebrow dubiously. "Did you hear something just now?" he asked.

"Oh, probably one of the children outside being careless with a ball," Rumplestiltskin said. "The playful little devils."

"Hmmm," Harold muttered noncommittally, looked back down at the contract…and again hesitated.

"Just sign it," Rumpelstiltskin assured him soothingly, "and all your worries will disappear."

Yes, Harold thought. So many worries. How wonderful it would be to make them all go away…and to have Fiona back, whole and human, once again. He looked over at Lillian. She nodded her assent. Harold then took one last look at the contract, sighed, and then signed his name at the bottom with a flourish.

It was done. Harold looked over at Rumpelstiltskin…and saw a sinister grin had spread across the imp's face. Then Harold looked down at the hand that had signed away his kingdom…and it started to disappear. He dropped the quill, but his hand continued to dissolve. Then the rest of his arm began to dissolve as well. There was no pain. There was simply…literally…nothing.

"Oh!" he heard Lillian gasp from beside him, and quickly turned toward her. To his horror, she, too, had begun to disappear. She looked at him with terror in her eyes.

Harold realized that he had chosen wrong – chosen terribly, tragically wrong. He had underestimated the evil little imp. Now not only would his daughter remain trapped, but his own True Love would pay for his idiocy as well.

As they reached desperately for each other, the former king and queen of Far Far Away vanished from existence. Harold's last thoughts were regrets that he had turned out to be such a complete and abject failure as a husband, a father, and a king.

* * *

Upon the monarchs' dissolution, the king's crown and the queen's tiara tumbled upon the tabletop with the signed contract. Rumpel, who was now adorned in Harold's royal attire though adjusted for his smaller frame, chuckled and picked up the crown. "Ah, King Harold," he reflected, his voice light and thoughtful. "You failed to understand. The _cause_ of Princess Fiona's unhappiness and imprisonment was not the enchantment that changed her into an ogre. With unconditional love, acceptance, and support for who she was, ogre or human, she could have been perfectly happy. No, the _cause_ of her unhappiness…was you. You, and to a lesser degree, your wife. You two just couldn't come to grips with your daughter's…imperfection. And you were surely the cause of her imprisonment when you both acceding to the Godmother's scheme. That lack of understanding and failure to be accepted – _that_ was Fiona's _true_ curse. And thus, we learn an important lesson on accepting each other for who we are, and on the value of unconditional love." Rumpel then laughed, flipped the crown in the air, caught it, and said exultantly, "How's _that_ for a philosophical profundity?"


	7. Last Knight

**Layer 7: Last Knight**

Fiona awoke after another uneventful night – uneventful, of course, except for the usual transmogrification followed by crying herself to sleep. It had been four days since that vivid dream of the knight crashing through the roof had startled her awake from her nap. But it _was_ just a dream now, she realized, and not a vision, for it had faded just like any other dream. Even now Fiona had a difficult time recalling any detail about that knight. In a few days' time, it would be as if his image never existed at all.

The sun was already up, something that Fiona was grateful for. She hated awakening as a monster; when that happened, she would simply lay there, waiting, almost counting the interminable seconds until dawn and the resumption of her proper form. But this morning, she was set to go. She sat up, stretched, got out of bed, and then went to her mirrorless dresser where she dipped her cupped hands in the water sitting in the basin there and wet her face, then dried it with a towel. Fortunately it had rained overnight – she recalled being awakened briefly by the clap of thunder and hearing the rain pelting the tower roof – and so the runoff collection vents around the outside of the tower would have replenished her fresh water supply, although she would strain it before drinking it so as to remove any residue left by the volcanic cloud through which the rain fell. That was mostly for the taste, though; one of the 'gifts' of the enchantment was that, in either form, she retained an ogre's high tolerance of impurities. Sometimes it seemed to Fiona that she was more like an ogress who assumed human form rather than the other way around, but when such thoughts struck her the princess dismissed them as ludicrous. One thing that Fiona felt sure of, in either state, was that she much preferred the fresh water than having to use the magical recycler that had been left her.

She walked over to a large tapestry and drew it aside, revealing a stone wall covered by many, many chalk marks where Fiona had been marking off the days of her captivity. The wall was nearly full. She picked up a piece of chalk, marked off another day, dropped the chalk, sighed, and then let the tapestry flop back into place.

She ate breakfast from her cache of specially enchanted bread. The bread was adapted from a recipe that the Fairy Godmother had taken from the elves along with their bakery, and to which she had added a preservation spell to keep it fresh indefinitely. Fiona didn't know that history, only that the bread supposedly contained all the nutrients she needed, and just a single piece filled her for the day. Thus she was only some three-quarters through the trunk full of the supply that had been left her when she had taken up residence. The food could probably last quite a while longer if need be, she supposed, but she found little comfort in the thought.

The bread, although nutritious, was bland to her taste, and so sometimes Fiona augmented it with a slice of fruitcake from a supply which had been left in another trunk. Much heavier than the elvin bread, it was also filling, and although it had no preservation spell placed upon it, its ingredients included enough preservatives to last a lifetime.

Fiona finished eating and then washed the food down with a small goblet of water. Her daily nutrient quotient fulfilled and hunger satisfied, she tried to ignore one other craving she felt – that for protein. For the type of protein she found herself craving she should, she realized, find revolting. Even in human form, when she thought back to the insect she had eaten that night, she didn't feel the revulsion she should have, but instead remembered its crunchiness, its tangy taste, and its creamy insides. And when she heard rustling behind the walls, rustling she believed was caused by rats, she didn't feel the fear and disgust that a proper princess should, but in the back of her mind she couldn't help but wonder what it would be like if she was able to catch one and cook it. Such thoughts actually did cause her to feel disgust, not at the rats, but at herself for _having_ them. She cursed the ogress within her for intruding its vile tastes upon her pristine palate, and tried to console herself with the certainty that such socially reprehensible preferences would vanish once she found her Prince Charming; or rather, once her Prince Charming found _her_.

Forcing culinary thoughts aside, Fiona donned a black leotard and performed a half-hour of tai chi, as her mother had taught her. Brief rounds of calisthenics and isometric exercises followed. Afterward she wiped off with a wet sponge, donned her green felt dress and velvet slippers, brushed and re-braided her hair, set her gold tiara in place, tucked her handkerchief under her sleeve, and then settled in for yet another day of…waiting.

After sitting at the window for a while, one elbow resting on the sill and her chin propped on one hand as she stared out across the bleak landscape and occasionally watched one of the half-dozen or so large brown eagles that made their nests in the other towers around the castle glide by, she got up and went to the part of her room where she kept her reading materials – and her audience.

"Good morning, Felicia," Fiona said sweetly, addressing a two-foot doll, dressed as a princess complete with its own little tiara, that sat propped in a chair. "Oh, where did Sir Squeakles go?" She reached down to the floor and picked up a small squeeze toy about the size of her hand. Covered in silk sown and decorated to make it look like a young knight in armor with a raised visor, it featured a cute smile stitched on beneath its button eyes and, as its name implied, it squeaked when squeezed. "Felicia, sweetheart, I believe this is yours," Fiona said, smiling, as she squeaked the toy and then laid it in the doll's lap.

"And where is Mr. Fluffy?" Fiona asked. "Ah, there he is!" Fiona went over to the nearby corner and picked up a plush, life-sized stuffed toy cat from off a pillow, along with a brush that lay beside it. The 'cat' had faded orange synthetic fur and a frayed dull pink ribbon tied around its neck.

"I think it's time for his grooming, don't you?" Fiona asked, taking a seat on a chair facing the doll. Fiona laid the stuffed cat in her own lap. "Who's a pretty kitty?" she said, and started carefully brushing its fur – already worn off in some areas after years of such 'grooming'. As she brushed, Fiona began to hum a melodic little tune – "Hmm-mm-mm, hmm-mm-mm, hmm-mm-mm, hmm-mm, hmm-mm" – a tune that her mother used to hum to her back so long, long ago, back when Fiona had a _real_ cat named 'Mr. Fluffy' whom they had groomed together. The real Mr. Fluffy was a somewhat lazy, overweight feline with shiny orange fur that Fiona had loved dearly and which seemed to love her back – and Mr. Fluffy didn't treat Fiona any differently whether she was human or ogress.

When the day was approaching for Fiona to leave for her stay in the Dragon's Keep, Fiona had begged her parents to let her take Mr. Fluffy as a companion.

"I'm sorry, dear," her father had said, "but trying to care for a cat in that environment might be a bit trying. Plus, he's getting a bit old and…well…"

Her father's eyes had sought her mothers' at that point, as if asking for assistance. Her mother had nodded to him, smiled, and knelt beside Fiona as the princess petted the cat, which purred contentedly in her lap.

"Your father is right, sweetheart," her mother said. "Mr. Fluffy is far too old for such adventures. But we can give you a toy cat to take his place while you wait for your rescuer. Every time you play with it, you can think back on Mr. Fluffy and the happy times you spent together."

"Will Mr. Fluffy be waiting for me here when I get back?" the saddened child asked.

Her mother had hesitated, a troubled expression on her face for a moment, but then she smiled reassuringly and said, "Of course, dear," and kissed her gently on her forehead.

Years later and somewhat wiser, Fiona realized that this was the first lie of which she was aware that her mother had told her. The real Mr. Fluffy was surely as dead by now as any of those knights that had sought to rescue her.

The recollection souring her mood, Fiona laid the toy cat aside. "So, Felicia," she said, turning toward a bookcase and leaning down to peruse the titles on the bottom shelf, which was filled with fairytale books, "which story would you like Mommy to read to you today?"

Fiona had a wide variety of books on different subjects and of different maturity levels. The fairytales were on the bottom shelf, with progressively more mature reading materials on the correspondingly higher shelves above them. Over the years she had read them all. In fact, she had been given a curriculum to follow until she was rescued so that her education wouldn't suffer, but she had already completed the curriculum before that happy event occurred. Facts on everything from history to mathematics to science to the intricacies of court etiquette were stored in her mind. (She'd had some problems with the science books. For example, Ptolemy's model of the workings of the universe appeared overly complex; it seemed to Fiona that things would be simpler and made more sense if you simply placed the sun at the middle instead of the earth. Of course, that only showed how poor a science student she would have made.) She'd even learned a smattering of tactical military strategy, for all the good _that_ would do her. But when she needed distraction, she always returned to the simple storybooks of her youth, with uncomplicated characters and clear morals, which she could share with her own prospective 'child'. After all, Fiona was as much of a princess in distress as any of those she read about. She had more than paid her dues, and so surely she had earned the happily-ever-after that the other princesses, who had suffered such briefer trials, had been granted.

"Here we are," Fiona said, picking out one of the well-worn volumes, "_Sleeping Beauty_, one of our favorites!"

Fiona sat down, opened the book in her lap while looking at the doll, and began:

"_Once upon a time there lived a king and queen who had no children; and this they lamented very much. But one day, as the queen was walking by the side of the river, a little fish lifted its head out of the water, and said, 'Your wish shall be fulfilled, and you shall soon have a daughter.'_

"_What the little fish had foretold soon came to pass; and the queen had a little girl who was so very beautiful that the king could not cease looking on her for joy, and determined to hold a great feast. So he invited not only his relations, friends, and neighbors, but also all the fairies, that they might be kind and good to his little daughter. Now there were thirteen fairies in his kingdom, and he had only twelve golden dishes for them to eat out of, so that he was obliged to leave one of the fairies without an invitation. The rest came, and after the feast was over they gave all their best gifts to the little princess; one gave her virtue, another beauty, another riches, and so on till she had all that was excellent in the world. When eleven had done blessing her, the thirteenth, who had not been invited, and was very angry on that account, came in, and determined to take her revenge. So she cried out, 'The king's daughter shall in her fifteenth year be wounded by a spindle, and fall down dead.' Then the twelfth, who had not yet given her gift, came forward and said that the bad wish must be fulfilled, but that she could soften it, and that the king's daughter should not die, but fall asleep for a hundred years.'_"

Fiona paused to reflect, as she often did at this point in the story. The heroine's ordeal may not have exactly been brief, but at least it was unconscious. Imagine that, she thought. To simply lie down and close her eyes, and then when they opened, they would be beholding her rescuer. A century of waiting that would seem like mere moments. How Fiona envied the story's princess.

Fiona then glanced down at the book to begin the next paragraph, and noticed that she had it upside down. Without consciously thinking about it, she had recited the first part from memory. Now that she _did_ stop to think about it, she realized that she had read the tale so many times over so many years that she could likely recite the entire story from memory. In fact, she could probably recite her whole _catalog_ of tales of beautiful princesses being rescued by handsome princes and living lives of happiness and ease from memory. She could recite them, while they lived them.

"_Argh!_" Fiona cried in frustration, and then, before she realized what she was doing, she ripped the book in half along its already worn spine. Then she stopped, stared aghast at what she had done for a few moments, and then bent over the ruined tome and began crying.

Fiona's crying jag lasted several minutes, and as her sobs faded into sniffles and whimpers, she caught a sound from outside – the distant but recognizable sound of a horse's hooves clopping on a rocky surface.

Fiona sprang up, the two halves of the book falling forgotten to the floor as she dashed to the window. She stared out to see another knight dressed in conventional armor dismounting his horse. He strode to the foot of the rope bridge, paused, and took out a scroll.

"Oh, no," Fiona moaned to herself.

As Fiona feared, the knight unfurled the scroll and read: "I, as first runner-up in the Duloc Invitational Dragon-slaying and Princess-rescuing Tournament, do challenge thee, foul beast, and do hereby proclaim my intention to free the beautiful, fair, flawless Fiona from thy keep and escort her back to Duloc where she shall wed the manly and brave Lord Farquaad – whose boots I am not worthy to shine, whose hair I am not worthy to anoint, and whose cheeks I am not worthy to pinch – and where she may rule as the perfect queen, subservient to his Perfect King."

As the knight re-furled and put away his scroll Fiona lowered and shook her head. Here was yet another knight sent by this Farquaad, an errand knight rather than a knight-errant, and one who was about to be killed for his trouble. Still, there were rules and strictures, and they had to be honored. She took out the handkerchief from beneath her sleeve and waved the favor in the air. The knight looked up, saw her, then unsheathed his sword and saluted her with it. Fiona felt herself blush, and she lowered the favor. The knight lowered his sword, turned, and walked back to his horse. He took his shield from where it was hung by the animal's side, and then paused a few moments to gently pet the animal, as if saying a last goodbye. Then he turned back, trained his eyes toward the castle, and with sword and shield at the ready he strode toward the bridge.

Fiona started to turn away – but something stopped her. No, this just wasn't right. She couldn't take this anymore, couldn't sit aside while another man sacrificed himself in some fruitless, stupid endeavor. She whirled back around and screamed at the top of her lungs, "HALT!"

The knight, startled, did indeed halt only a few paces from the robe bridge. He looked up in her direction, although at this distance neither knight nor princess could make out each others' faces very well. "Are you Princess Fiona?" he called up to her.

"I am," Fiona responded. "And I bid thee to cease thy quest and returnest to thine home."

He paused for a moment, and then asked, "Are you not held prisoner by a foul dragon?"

"Yes," she replied, but wasn't sure what else to say after that.

"Then it is my duty to free you," he said, and again began toward the bridge.

"NO!" Fiona called. "Thou shalt be killed!"

He stopped and looked back up at her. After a moment he said, "It is a risk I must take."

"But _why_?" she asked. "Thou aren't even performing this quest for yourself, but for this…this Lord Farquaad."

"That is true. And Lord Farquaad holds dominion to my land. If I do not perform this duty, then I shall find myself a homeless pauper."

Fiona was surprised. Did this knight not know that if he rescued and married her, that he would be in line to inherit an even superior kingdom? She began to say that, but halted herself. If she did so, that would only encourage him on – into the dragon's maw.

"Please," she said. "Property is not worth your life."

"Perhaps. But my honor is."

"I don't doubt that you are honorable – and brave and skilled as well. But that is no match for the fierce beast below!"

"You are quite kind and thoughtful, m'lady. And that is all the more reason to free you from that diabolical dragon that captured and imprisoned you."

"I wasn't captured by the dragon," Fiona responded without thinking, "my parents sent me here."

The knight paused, staring up at her for a few moments. Then, with a trace of pity in his voice, he said, "Why did your parents hate you?"

Fiona blinked. "My…my parents don't hate me. They did this…for my own good."

He silently stared up at her. Fiona could almost feel his disbelief…and his sympathy.

"You don't understand," she said, frustrated, knowing she couldn't explain. "My parents love me!"

"May God save us from such 'loving' parents," the knight said, lowering his head and staring at the keep's front. "As I shall attempt to save you." He began carefully walking down the plank bridge, sword held at the ready.

"NO!" Fiona screamed. "DON'T!"

"Fear not, m'lady," he said, neither breaking stride nor looking up. "I shall see you soon. Adieu."

"PLEASE! DON'T! You'll DIE!"

He continued down the bridge, ignoring her pleas.

"STOP!" Fiona cried as he disappeared into the keep beneath her. "Sto-o-op," she choked, sinking to her knees. She felt new tears sting her eyes. "I don't want another death on my head," she whimpered, and again began crying.

After a few seconds Fiona tried to pull herself together. "Just stop it," she chastised herself, forcing herself to stop crying and wiping the tears from her eyes hard with the heels of her palms. "Blast it, maybe this is the one. Have you thought of that? Where's your faith? He seemed brave, and even caring. After all these years, he could surely be—"

From within the bowels of the castle, Fiona heard the dragon's roar, followed by the knight's scream – which was abruptly cut off.

Fiona closed her eyes, bowed her head, and for several minutes wept with despair until no more tears would come.

She had never spoken to any of the other knights before. Surprisingly, she now reflected, it had not occurred to her. They had their role to play, as did she. Had she even thought of them as individuals? No, she realized with some shame, she supposed she hadn't. But now that she _had_ spoken with one, things had suddenly become more personal. She realized abashedly that she hadn't even learned his name, and so in the end he was just the latest in the string of nameless knights that had died trying to rescue her. But they all _did_ have names. They were all people, too, with their own hopes and dreams, none of which included being digested or immolated by a dragon. She wondered now at the motivations of such men, the ones not sent by Farquaad. What would drive them onward toward such peril? The chivalrous desire to save an endangered maiden, as she had assumed? Or perhaps the want of a princehood, with its riches and prestige? Did expectations of their profession or their peers drive them? Or maybe the thrill of the ultimate extreme sport? Combinations of any of those? Perhaps. But now, men were dying because they were being coerced to, by some cowardly lord without the guts to attempt the deed himself. And even if either of the last two knights had succeeded, could she really share True Love's kiss with such a person as this Farquaad? Even if it would end her curse? Fiona wondered. Perhaps if the previous knight had succeeded…or if she had not felt a bond with this last one…maybe in her desperation to rid herself of her curse she could have tried talking herself into it. But now she could feel nothing but contempt for the Lord of Duloc.

Something else that this last knight had said haunted her. 'Why did your parents hate you?' He obviously didn't know her history, and so couldn't understand. But the words – spoken with such pity in his voice – had triggered some unwelcome thought processes, and reawakened memories long suppressed; memories such as her father's stern chastisement when, as a very small child, all she had wanted to do was attend a slumber party with her friends at Princess Aurora's castle. Of course, Fiona knew she would transform overnight, but the other children were her friends, and surely they would understand. She assumed so, anyway. But her father had been aghast at the idea, and had reiterated quite vehemently that she was _never_ to set foot outside their castle, or even to leave specifically designated areas of it, during the nighttime hours. She recalled the picture she had drawn of the scene in her diary, the way she had drawn his face, trying in her young, innocent way to capture the expression there, the stern expression that she now realized was caused by…shame.

Even her mother, although ostensibly more understanding than her father, had in her own way registered her own displeasure. The queen expressed it more subtly, in ways she probably wasn't even aware of: a little less kindness in her voice when addressing her ogre daughter, a shifting away of the eyes rather than keeping them fixed on Fiona's ugly green visage, things such as that. But even her mother could forget herself sometimes and be more blatant. Fiona recalled one instance when, eating a particularly tasty but messy cake with her hands after dinner one night, she had accidentally smeared frosting on her face and dress, and her mother had remarked with distaste, "Really, Fiona. I know you can't help turning _into_ an ogre, but do you have to _eat_ like one?" Such remarks were rare, and no doubt prompted by stress and despair, but they did happen, and over time Fiona learned to block out such comments when she heard them. At least, she thought she had.

But…well, so what? If her parents didn't love her, they wouldn't have taken her to all those mages over time to try to cure her. And placing her in this tower, it was a part of the final cure. It wasn't like they were ashamed of her, or trying to hide her away, like an embarrassing secret.

Was it?

No, she chided herself, of course not. Her parents loved her. And if she could walk out of the keep today and into their own castle, whether she was cured or not, they would love her just the same.

Wouldn't they?

Of _course_ they would. Fiona realized it was important for her to believe that.

Because it would have to be put to the test.

She had to escape the tower. On her own. Before any other knights died trying to rescue her.

However kind-hearted her parents' wishes were, the 'Prince Charming' scenario simply wasn't working. However much Fiona had fantasized about her life as the wife of such a hero, it had gone on far too long and cost too many lives. Whatever the intentions, Fiona began to realize that she was not a prize to be won by would-be rescuers, but bait being dangled like a worm on a hook in front of their eyes. Fiona had to escape the hook that kept her pinned in this room. She _had_ to. Then, she would return to her parents, and then…well, then they would see. They would try something else. Or they would simply have to reconcile themselves to the reality that Fiona would live out her life as she was, and accept her for that...and maybe even help her to accept herself.

They _would_ do that for her, wouldn't they?

Of _course_ they would. Fiona mentally kicked herself for having such doubts. She just wished that, now that those doubts had arisen, she could completely banish them.

But first things first. She had to figure a way to escape the keep. No, actually, the _first_ thing was to escape this _room_.

She turned toward the door. That ever-present, beckoning, ominous door. Over the seemingly endless years she had sometimes, when feeling particularly lonely or frustrated, wondered what would happen if she ever decided to just open that door and walk out…to descend into the bowels of the castle and take her _own_ chances and try to sneak by the dragon. But the certainty of _that_ outcome had always squelched such fleeting fantasies. But now…Fiona considered the door again. She approached it carefully, with trepidation, as a pagan might approach the altar of a powerful but temperamental deity. She thought that the smell of brimstone, which she had become mostly inured to over the years, even to her ogress senses, became noticeable as she drew nearer. Of course, that could just be her nerves and imagination. She slowly reached out a trembling hand. Her fingers brushed the wooden finish, only slightly warm, but she quickly drew her hand back as if she had touched a hot stove. She then took a couple of slow, stumbling steps backward, still facing the door.

No, she wasn't quite ready to walk out that door.

Fortunately, that wasn't the only option.

Fiona turned back toward the window. She walked over to it, then leaned out and looked downward. The height made her slightly dizzy as she stared down the tower's long, relatively smooth cylindrical stone outer wall. She didn't see anything that might provide hand or foot holds should she try to scale down it. She considered constructing a makeshift rope, but the gossamer curtains were too flimsy to hold even her human weight, and she had very few bed sheets since the room stayed perpetually warm due to its location over the lava. (Although the temperature _had_ seemed to be a bit lower lately; Fiona wondered if perhaps the lava might actually be cooling.) There were some other assorted materials about the room, but even if she could rip them apart and tie the shreds together, they didn't provide nearly enough yardage. So a rope to scale downward seemed out of the question as well. Even if she _did_ manage to climb or scale down, she would still have to sneak across the bridge. Would the dragon notice her? The beast seemed inscrutably attentive, even with knights that _didn't_ announce their presence like the last two had. Maybe if she could catch it asleep. But when did it sleep? And for how long at a time? And how deeply? If Fiona only knew.

Frustrated, the princess propped her elbows on the window sill and rested her chin on her hands as she tried to think of an alternative. As she thought, a couple more of the eagles appeared, majestically riding the air currents several yards in the distance. Fiona's brain continued to ponder as her eyes distractedly followed the eagles.

The eagles.

_The eagles!_


	8. Roadside Showdown

**Layer 8: Roadside Showdown**

**Author's Note:** I'd like to thank all the readers of this story who are returning to it after a much lengthier hiatus than I had planned. I won't bore you with excuses, but I do offer my apologies for the delay, as well as my humble gratitude if you choose to continue.

* * *

Sir Francis Hoariman, head of the FFA monarchial protection service, cursed himself yet again as he spurred his horse onward down the increasingly ill-kept, muddy road that led through a forest toward the Crone's Nest Carriage Park. Behind him he heard hoof beats and metallic clatter from the other nine members of his squad who, like himself, were arrayed in battle armor. In retrospect, he realized how foolish he had been not to follow the royal couple before now, despite the queen's direct orders not to. Always the soldier, he had acceded to her command. But she had been speaking as a distressed mother, not a dispassionate monarch. He should have left to follow them earlier, he told himself for the hundredth time, and if he were dismissed for defying her orders now, then so be it. The fierce, portentous thunderstorm that had struck the kingdom the previous night matched the self-anger raging in his own conscience as he had paced the ramparts of the castle, awaiting his sovereigns' return. When that hadn't happened, he had set out with his squad at first light of dawn, resolved to ensure their safety or, if his stupidity had prevented that, to wreak havoc on anyone who might have endangered it.

Then, as they rounded a curve, Hoariman saw it – the king's coach, pulled off just to the side of the road. The knight intoned a deep "whoa" and pulled his horse to a stop so abrupt that it whinnied and briefly rose to its hind hooves in protest. The animal settled down as Hoariman signaled for the riders behind him to halt as well. For a moment he just stared at the lonely vehicle, not detecting any movement within. Its two coachmen sat side-by-side on the driver's bench, perfectly still and staring straight ahead; they had not appeared to notice the arrival of Hoariman and his squad at all. The coach's team of horses shifted in their stances and glanced in the knights' direction with mild curiosity. Hoariman couldn't detect any movement from within the carriage.

"Sir," the knight's lieutenant said as Hoariman deftly slid his trim, tall frame from off his saddle, "do you think—"

"I'm done thinking," Hoariman snapped, one mail-gloved hand settling on the hilt of his sword. "Follow me."

Hoariman moved toward the coach with long, determined strides, moving as quickly as the mud that sucked at his feet would allow. The angular, craggy face beneath his raised visor was rigidly set as he kept his eyes trained on the coach before him. There was a general clanking and rattling of armor as the other knights dismounted their steeds and followed him.

As he drew nearer, Hoariman called to the coachmen, "You, there! What happened here? Are the king and queen inside?"

The coachmen's heads slowly moved together in Hoariman's direction. Their expressions seemed listless, their gaze unfocused. "Yes," the nearer of the men said in a dull monotone, "the king is inside." Then, without another word, their heads moved slowly back in unison until they were again staring straight ahead.

Something was definitely wrong. Hoariman drew his sword as he neared the coach door and a moment later he heard the sound of his men unsheathing their own swords from their scabbards behind him. When he reached the door, Hoariman seized the handle, yanked the door open, and stared inside.

Instead of seeing the king or his wife, the knight found himself staring at an imp dressed up in royal attire and wearing a tall powdered wig. In one hand he held a rolled-up scroll.

"Sir Hoariman!" the imp gushed. "Ah, I've been expecting you!"

Hoariman squinted as he recognized the figure. After a moment he spat out the name, "Rumpelstiltskin."

Rumpelstiltskin sighed. "You see?" he said. "That's why the guessing game doesn't work anymore. Even _you've_ heard of me!"

"The queen told me that she and the king were on their way to negotiate some sort of deal with you to free their daughter, although she wouldn't give me the details. Besides, it's my business to keep tabs on magic users in the kingdom, especially those who also fall into the riff-raff category."

"Riff-raff? I've never been arrested for _any_ of my dealings!"

"Only because you're slipperier than a lawyer."

"A lawyer!" the imp said indignantly. "That's just going _too far_. And it's no way to speak to your—"

In a flash Hoariman leaned into the coach and swung his sword toward the imp. The weapon came to rest with Hoariman holding it with the point an inch from Rumpelstiltskin's throat. The imp's eyes opened wide and he gasped.

Hoariman jerked his head in the direction of the coachmen. "Is that your work, punk?" he asked. "Do you know the penalty for using magic on anyone against their will within the jurisdiction of Far Far Away?"

"Magic? Them? Me? No!" the imp stammered.

Hoariman stared distastefully at the cowering little creature for a few moments longer. Then he leaned back and, keeping his sword pointed at Rumpelstiltskin, said, "Get out."

"Cer-certainly!" the imp said, gave an uneasy chuckle, and then carefully followed Hoariman out of the coach. His curly-toed shoes sank slightly in the mud as he stepped onto the ground. He clutched the scroll closely to his chest with both hands as he stared up at the knight, who kept his sword trained on him.

"Where's King Harold?" Hoariman demanded in a low, raspy tone.

"Harold?" Rumpelstiltskin said. "I'm afraid Harold is gone. _I'm_ king now!"

Hoariman just stared at the imp's face, which had acquired a little smirk despite being held at swordpoint. The knight's stony expression drained of blood for a moment, but then the redness returned with a vengeance as he fought to restrain his fury. After what seemed like interminable seconds, he said simply, "What?"

"It's true!" Rumpelstiltskin said. "Harold and Lillian—"

"_King_ Harold and _Queen_ Lillian to you, punk," Hoariman corrected.

"Yeah, whatever. Anyway, they showed up and we negotiated a contract to free their daughter of her curse in return for their signing their kingdom over to me. It was quite selfless and noble of them as parents, really – although, between you and me, not particularly wise as monarchs, y'know? I mean, would _you_ barter away your whole kingdom? Especially to someone whom some misguided people slander with names like – what was it you said – riff-raff? Still, I _am_ a businessman, so I couldn't really turn down—"

"You _liar!_" Hoariman spat.

"No, really!" Rumpelstiltskin said, unfurling the scroll and holding the contract out toward Hoariman. "See! You recognize Harold's signature, don't your? It's all right there in black and white – and gold, with a little green trim, and—"

"Then where are the king and queen now?"

Rumpelstiltskin lowered the contract. "Oh, you could say that after their daughter's curse was ended that Harold and Lillian decided to take Fiona and retire to a quiet, out-of-the way chalet out in the country somewhere where they could live the rest of their years peacefully as a nice happy family, without the burdens of monarchy. Hey, politicians quit all the time to 'spend more time with their families', right? Even some who _aren't_ under indictment. And imagine how much time Harold and Lillian would have to make up for with Fiona! Yes, you could say that. In fact, you _will_ say that."

"_What?_"

"Well, if it were just me, even though I can be pretty persuasive, there might be some cynics back in Far Far Away who would doubt me. But if _you_ back me up…well, everyone knows how noble and honorable you are. Heck, just look at that glowing article about you in January's _Squire_ magazine. So between my persuasiveness and your credibility—"

"You're not being very persuasive right now, punk," Hoariman said.

"Oh, with you, I don't need to be," Rumpelstiltskin said, growing more confident. "You see, unlike the general citizenry, you and your men here took an oath to serve, protect, and obey the monarchy of Far Far Away. Well, now that I'm king, you owe that loyalty oath to _me_. And so I'm _ordering_ you to do just what I said."

Hoariman stared down into Rumpelstiltskin's face. The imp's contemptible smirk had deepened and he looked triumphant. The knight felt his rage quickening. "You disgusting little rat-faced _thing_," Hoariman said. "If you think that devilish piece of parchment makes you king—"

"Oh, but it does! And there's nothing you can do about it!"

"I think there is," Hoariman said, and raised his sword over his head as, eyes squinting, he took aim at the contract still held in Rumpelstiltskin's hands. Hoariman imagined that the imp might well think the knight was aiming at _him_. If so, then so much the better.

Rumpelstiltskin's expression quickly morphed into a look of terror. "No! Don't!" he said, his voice a pathetic whine, and quickly held the unfurled contract up between the knight and himself. "This contract is completely legal…"

Hoariman, pleased that the villain had unwittingly given him a better target, swung the sword downward. But as the blade touched the enchanted paper it suddenly stopped, barely leaving a crinkle. At the same time a bolt of energy like lightening traveled from the contract up through the sword and engulfed the knight. A moment later bolts leapt from Hoariman's body and briefly engulfed each of the other knights in turn. And then, after a few seconds, the energy was gone. Hoariman continued holding his sword, but his sword arm dropped limply to his side and he stood mutely, staring straight ahead, his expression blank. The sword arms of all the other knights did the same and their faces also took on a frozen glaze.

Rumpelstiltskin, his smirk back and deeper than ever, lowered the contract and looked up at the now silent knight. "…and _binding!_" the imp concluded.

He laughed triumphantly as he re-furled the contract and, around him, witches slowly started emerging from the forest. Baba walked hesitantly up to Hoariman. She looked up at his blank expression for a few seconds, and then briefly waved a hand in front of his face. When that elicited no reaction she knocked on his breastplate. That also prompting no response, she asked, "Can he move?"

"Of _course_ he can move," Rumpelstiltskin said. "He's just spellbound, he doesn't need _oiled_. The point is, he only moves and performs when _I_ tell him to. Isn't that right, Sir Hoariman?"

"Yes," Hoariman responded in a dull monotone.

"Yes, _what?_" Rumpelstiltskin prodded.

"Yes…Your Majesty," Hoariman said listlessly.

"Not bad," the imp said, smiling. "But put a little more life into it. We need to sell that you're really behind this as a team player."

"Yes, Sire!" Hoariman said with more enthusiasm.

"Better," Rumpelstiltskin said. "Now, assemble your men as an escort. Far Far Away deserves to see their new king arrive in style!"

"Yes, Sire," Hoariman said. He saluted with his sword, turned, and gestured his men back to their horses.

Rumpelstiltskin smiled deeply and sighed with self-satisfaction as he watched Hoariman stride away. "Ah, so easy!" he said. "Now, on to Far Far Away, where I shall establish myself as ruler prepare the next _real_ challenge."

"You mean the Fairy Godmother?" Baba asked.

"No," Rumpelstiltskin said, dropping his smile and rolling his eyes, "passing health care reform. Of _course_ I mean the Fairy Godmother!" Then the imp smiled again, even more sinisterly. "Fortunately, the solution to that problem will also feed nicely into taking care of the last major problem. Ironic, really. It'll be like killing two birds with one stone!"


	9. The King's Speech

**Layer 9: The King's Speech**

Dama was meeting with a client in her office – some corpulent woman named Sprat who needed something special to help her diet, as her odd metabolism rendered her incapable of digesting any but the fattiest foods, or so she claimed – when the sound of loud animated conversations sprang up from the direction of the reception room.

"What in Grimms' name," Dama muttered, rising from the plush chair behind her desk. "Excuse me for a moment, Mrs. Sprat," she said, forcing a smile to her lips and pleasantness into her voice, and then headed for the door.

Mrs. Sprat – who was sitting in a lower and less comfortable chair before Dama's desk – nodded, watched Dama depart, and then when she was sure she was alone, pulled out a greasy Friar's Triple Cheese Bigburger from her tote bag and began munching it down greedily.

Meanwhile, in the hallway, Dama was nearly to the door to the reception room when it burst open and Jerome came hurrying through, nearly running into her. "Oh! Fairy Godmother!" he said, screeching to a halt. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"What is it, Jerome?" Dama demanded.

"News from Far Far Away, Fairy Godmother. King Harold is…is no longer king!"

Dama's mouth fell open. "Harold…is…dead?" she asked. But she was taken aback for only a moment. Harold was certainly no spring chicken, but she hadn't anticipated his dying just yet. Still, although this sped up her timetable, it didn't upset it entirely. It certainly raised the stakes on Fiona's rescue, but that actually worked to her advantage. Thank goodness she had spurred her son on. Now Charming wasn't rushing to rescue a princess, but rather the new queen of Far Far Away. And when he married her, he would become—

"…the new king," Jerome was just finishing saying something.

"Yes," Dama said, smiling, a far-off look in her eyes. Then she shook her head, snapping herself back to reality. The elf couldn't read her mind. Caught up in her mental recalculations, she had missed the first part of whatever Jerome had said. "What? Say that again, Jerome?"

"I said that Harold's fate is unknown, but Rumpelstiltskin is the new king," he replied.

Dama gaped again, stunned. After a few moments she said, "What? That little imp that spins straw into gold?"

Jerome shook his head. "No, Fairy Godmother. It's the younger one, the one with the contracts."

"How…did this _happen?_" Dama said, thinking, _what did that idiot Harold do now?_

Jerome shook his head. "No one knows for sure, Fairy Godmother. But the new king has announced he is going to give a speech tonight at eight o'clock where all will be explained."

"Oh, he's got some explaining to do, all right," Dama snapped, then turned on her heels and marched back toward her office. She threw the door open, startling Mrs. Sprat, who was in the midst of chugging a bottle of heavy cream.

"Oh! Fair Godmother!" Mrs. Sprat said, embarrassed, wiping some spilled cream from the double chin beneath her blushing face. "I'm sorry, I—"

"Gimme that," Dama barked, seizing the bottle as she walked by her client, all pretence of sweetness gone. As she reached her side of the desk Dama stood for a moment and chugged the remaining contents of the bottle down herself.

"Fairy Godmother!" Mrs. Sprat gasped, aghast.

"Just stow it, Kirstie," Dama said, slamming the now empty bottle down on the desktop. She wiped a thick liquid moustache from off her lip as she jabbed the intercom button for her chauffeur. "Kyle, ready the carriage. We're going to see this so-called king, _now!_"

* * *

It didn't take long for Dama's airborne carriage to reach the outskirts of Far Far Away. "Go directly to the castle, Kyle," Dama ordered as they topped a hill and saw the towers of the castle gleaming in the distance.

As they drew nearer and were able to make out people around the castle, Dama squinted at the structure. "Circle it once, Kyle," she ordered. The chauffeur did as he was told, and Dama examined its exterior. It appeared that every balcony, at every height, had at least one soldier standing on guard in full armor and holding a sharp steel pike. Dama smirked. So, the little imp was already feeling a bit paranoid, was he? Afraid she might try to sneak in on him? Well, the Fairy Godmother of Far Far Away had no need of sneaking. "Land us right by the front doors," she ordered as Kyle completed the circle.

As Kyle started their descent, Dama noted that people were already starting to gather in the public courtyard for the 'king''s speech that evening. She saw where many who had arrived on foot had brought blankets and were now relaxing on them and eating from picnic baskets, while others who had arrived in carriages had opened their tailgates, pulled out grills, and were socializing while barbequing a variety of meats. Some had small barrels packed with ice and flasks of ale and beer that they passed around to each other. Dama caught the aroma of roasting meats wafting up and it caused her stomach to growl. "Not now," she chastised it.

The people noticed Dama's carriage and many excitedly pointed up to it as it drew nearer. Some started calling her name. Dama sighed. She was in no mood to play the role of popular, benevolent Fairy Godmother just then. Just then she meant business.

The carriage landed deftly just a few feet from the steps that led up to the large ornate doors that made up the main entrance. Two armored guards, visors down, pikes at the ready, stood before the closed doors. It was a sight meant to discourage visitors. Dama didn't care. Kyle had barely opened the carriage door that faced the castle when Dama, ignoring the calls of the people eager to see her, flew from the carriage directly toward the entrance, her gossamer wings beating madly. She gripped the wand tightly in her hand, and the tip started glowing.

As she drew near, the two guards simultaneously leaned their pikes toward each other. The pikes' long handles met together, forming an 'X' before the entrance doors. "Halt!" they demanded in unison.

Dama halted in the air and hovered a few feet before them for several moments, looking at their inscrutable visors. Forcing her voice to remain calm, she said, "Very well, gentlemen, as you say." She then landed and, staring up at each of them in turn, said, "Tell the new…_king_…that the Fairy Godmother is here and demands an audience with him."

"_Demands_, Fairy Godmother?" a raspy voice came from beyond the door. "Isn't that a bit presumptuous?"

One of the doors opened and a particularly tall, armored knight stepped out, wearing the insignia of the head of royal security. He raised his visor, revealing the craggy features of Sir Hoariman. The two guards snapped to attention, parting the pikes and setting them parallel to their stiffened forms.

"Oh, thank goodness!" Dama said. "Hoariman, where is Har— I mean, _King_ Harold? What is the meaning of this usurping little pygmy?"

"Harold is king no longer," Hoariman said, passing between the guards. He took a stance in front of Dama, clasped his hands casually behind him, and looked down at her. "And I'd suggest that you consider more carefully how you address our new monarch."

For the third time that day Dama found herself agape and at a loss for words. It was becoming a new and entirely unpleasant habit for her.

Hoariman continued, "But King Rumpel is quite aware that the people are anxious about the suddenness of events, and will address those in his speech this evening. And the king has expressed a keen interest in meeting you, Fairy Godmother, as one of the leading citizens of the kingdom."

"I'm sure he has," Dama said cautiously. "When might I be able to do so?"

"I believe that we should be able to accommodate a visit at around noon tomorrow, if that is agreeable to you."

Dama, her calculating mind reasserting itself and forcing her emotions back in check, considered both the proposal and the face of the man making it as she unconsciously patted her wand against the palm of her free hand. Should she force a confrontation now? No, she decided, not yet. It was apparent from the increased security and Hoariman's greeting her at the doorway that the impudent imp was expecting her. Who knew what he might have planned for her if she forced her way in now? Also, such an uncharacteristic show of force might not play well to her image, with so many of the citizens behind her, watching her every move. Heavens knew what rumors that Sprat woman was already trying to spread, but fortunately she was just an old busybody that nobody really listened to anyway. Physically unable to digest lean, indeed. No, best for now to bide her time until the next day…and make some plans of her own. "That would be fine," she said eventually, her voice carefully neutral. "I'll be…looking forward to it."

"Very good," Hoariman said, and gave a short perfunctory bow. "Until tomorrow then." He then turned and strode back to the castle and disappeared through the doorway, the door shutting behind him.

Dama stared at the doors for a brief while longer. It had been Hoariman, but there was something not quite right about him. The security chief was usually a cool and measured customer, but his delivery this time was too mechanical, almost stilted, as if he were acting against his will. All signs, Dama knew, of a person under a spell. But Hoariman knew better than to agree to one of Rumpelstiltskin's contracts, even if Harold didn't. So either those foul witches that hung about with the imp had dared to cast something or…no, of course! Once Rumpelstiltskin had tricked Harold out of the kingship, he had exploited Hoariman's loyalty oath to the monarchy to spellbind him – and likely had done the same to the other knights and soldiers. It was a particularly cowardly and pernicious piece of spellcraft. Even after Charming became king, Dama had no intention of stooping so low as to use it. Well, not unless it became absolutely necessary. Now, though, it appeared that Rumpelstiltskin's little coup had made such scrupulous decisions academic.

"No," Dama muttered defiantly to herself as she turned away from the doors. "Charming is _still_ going to be king. I'll just have to come up with something smarter."

As she drew nearer her carriage, the crowd in the courtyard beyond it began cheering her and calling her name. She looked up at them. Well, at least she still had her carefully cultivated celebrity. Maybe she could eventually use that to her advantage. She forced one of her trademark smiles and headed into the crowd, specifically in the direction of one of the carriages whose tailgate grill was throwing off a particularly tempting aroma. Stress had always stimulated her appetite, and she was finding her present predicament quite stressful.

* * *

Dama found her celebrity a two-edged sword, as so many of the groundlings seemed to presume, since she always seemed to be 'in the know', that she knew what was going on now. She assured her listeners that she was as much in the dark as they – a fib that was too close to the truth for her comfort – and kept her responses non-committal. She might eventually need to foment the crowd against Rumpelstiltskin, but now was not the time, not until she had better bearings. As repulsive a thought she found it, she realized that she might eventually need to strike a deal of her own with the new 'king'; albeit on _her_ terms, and certainly not _his_. At last, after what seemed like interminable minutes of pleasant but evasive non-answers and autograph signing (which she did by simply tapping the proffered object with her wand and willing her elegant scrawl to appear there), the frustrated crowd stopped pestering her, and she was able to sample the wares of several of the amateur cooks as she joined the others in waiting.

Finally, as twilight faded into night and the crowd had grown to capacity, the hour came. The constant murmuring faded as from somewhere in the castle the first notes of _Also Sprach Zarathustra_ started playing. Dama put down a half-finished chicken wing, dabbed at her lips with a napkin and stifled a small burp as she joined the others in looking up at a wide, tall third story balcony as light started shining from the thin spaces between and to the sides of two large, thick burgundy curtains that hung there, obstructing any further view. The light grew in intensity as a loud professional announcer's voice started reverberating from within.

"Loyal subjects of the kingdom of Far Far Away, the Royal Palace is proud to present to you tonight your new monarch: the great, the powerful, King Rumpel the First! And so, ladies and gentlemen…_let's get ready for Rumpellll!_"

The music hit a crescendo – _baah…baaaah…BAAAAAAH!_ – and the peal of base drums resounded as the curtains drew aside to reveal an extra-large, brightly backlit poster of Far Far Away's royal coat of arms which took up the entire background of the balcony. Suddenly there was a loud explosion and a huge cloud of smoke sprang up before the poster, causing gasps of shock and awe from many in the crowd. But then the smoke cleared to reveal a ten foot-tall 3D holographic projection of Rumpelstiltskin's head hovering before the coat of arms, most of the projection's height made up of a tall powered wig. The face was beaming a large benevolent smile.

"Greetings, fair citizens of Far Far Away!" Rumpelstiltskin's voice boomed. "I want to thank everyone for showing up tonight. I know you've all got questions, and a few worries, so relax, and let me allay those for you. Really, you've got nothing to fear but fear itself. First, for those of you who haven't heard, my name is Rumpelstiltskin." Suddenly the image of the head morphed into a large still 2D picture, a color drawing, showing the imp, dressed as he normally did before become king, standing alongside a smiling, obviously happy and apparently married couple dressed in commoner garb. The man and woman each clasped a bag that had a golden sheen. The man was leaning down and shaking hands with Rumpel while Rumpel's other hand held a rolled-up scroll. In the background sat Rumpel's egg-shaped carriage hitched to his goose Fifi. "I've been running a modest and respectable magical deals business for years, working hard to bring joy and happiness to all of my customers," the imp's voice continued in narration. Dama nearly coughed up her chicken.

The image of the drawing swirled into another drawing, this one showing Fiona in the window of her castle tower, weeping. Beneath her the dragon stood guard, belching flame. Off to one side stood Harold and Lillian, also weeping, as they looked up at the princess. "Such was my reputation and abilities that the king and queen, anxious to end their daughter's imprisonment…"

The drawing swirled into another one, showing the royal couple and Rumpel inside Rumpel's carriage, with Harold signing a contract. "…turned to me to save the Princess from her frightful plight!"

The drawing swirled again to one showing a scene at a beach. In the foreground Lillian and Fiona, each wearing a tiara and one-piece swimsuit and smiling broadly, were building a sand castle – albeit a detailed one that stood six feet high. In the background, out in the water, Harold, wearing just his crown and swim trunks, was water skiing, holding a tow line connected to a rowboat manned by four furiously rowing Vikings. "Such was their delight at having their family restored, that the royals decided to retire to a seaside resort, where they can live out their days in quiet domestic bliss. But the king still felt obliged to leave the kingdom in capable hands. And who do you think he chose? Well, let's check out the video…"

The drawing morphed yet again, not into another drawing this time, but into a video screen. It showed a still of the actual footage of where the royal couple and Rumpelstiltskin were inside the imp's carriage, with Harold speaking to Rumpel. In the lower right-hand corner of the screen was superimposed the logo 'YeTube.' Then the footage started to move. "…you are competent and capable enough to run our kingdom", the king said to the imp, and the video abruptly stopped.

"There, you see?" Rumpel's voice asked. "A blessing from the king's own lips! And thus he signed this contract…" The video now morphed into an enlarged image of the contract. A couple of lines had been blacked out and the word 'DECLASSIFIED' stamped at the top and bottom. "…granting me the honor of freeing Princess Fiona if I would agree to take on the burden of responsibility for this kingdom. Note King Harold's signature, which has been validated as authentic by none other than Prince Waterhouse! Thus authorized, I was able to free the princess, not through machismo, but through magismo, succeeding where so many valiant knights had failed, and thus proving that the pen is indeed mightier than the sword!"

Dama looked up at the image of the contract and shook her head. "Harold, you fool!" she muttered to herself, keeping her voice particularly low since an awed, near complete silence had fallen over the transfixed crowd as they watched the spectacle of Rumpelstiltskin's presentation. A few yards away, someone looking up at the contract _did_ demand "I wanna see the long form!" but he was quickly shushed down by those around him.

The image of the contract swirled away and Rumpel's disembodied head again appeared. "Now, I know some of you have concerns," he said. "Can this little guy run such a big kingdom? What qualifications does he have? Has he been sufficiently vetted? Well, it's true. I wasn't born to royalty. I'm not part of some aristocratic elite. But don't you see; that's a _good_ thing! I am – or was – just a working stiff, trying to eek out a living, just like the vast majority of you. I feel your pain, and I know what trials and tribulations and daily drudgery you have to go through, month by month, year by year. And I know that, so often, government is much more of a hindrance than a help. Rules and regulations to tell you how to run your life, and taxes at every turn. Do you enjoy paying taxes, people?"

Rumpel waited. There was an uneasy stir in the crowd. They apparently hadn't anticipated the event would require audience participation.

"C'mon, people," Rumpel chuckled. "Am I stuttering here? _Do_ you like paying taxes?"

There was more stirring, and a few people said, "No."

"I can't hear you!" Rumpel said. "Do you like the government telling you how to run your lives, and then swooping in like crows to pluck away the fruits of your labor?"

More people responded, and with more vehemence, saying "No!"

"What's that you say?"

"NO!" more people joined in, and louder. Dama remained quiet, although her feelings as she watched how this was going were disquieting.

"I'm not here just to hold a kingship," Rumpel said, "but to gather you to transform a kingdom. Can you image a new future, where we can all move forward together, as one people, with more personal freedom, and lower taxes?"

"YES WE CAN!" the crowd shouted back.

"Then let's do it!" Rumpel said.

The crowd around Dama burst into applause and cheers. "I'll drink to that!" Dama heard a voice from nearby, and turned to see that one of the groups of tailgaters had set up a folding table about which sat a large hare, a dormouse, and an odd looking man with a dreadfully pale face and a mop of curly red hair topped by an oversized hat. A pot of tea sat on the middle of the table, and they were all raising their teacups in a toast toward Rumpelstiltskin's projection.

Rumpelstiltskin's image smiled benevolently down on the crowd while waiting for the cheering to die down. Then he said, "Now, I know that there are a few well-to-do royals and nobles out there who worry about how this might affect their status quo. And I know there are some bleeding hearts that have some…humanitarian concerns about how cutting off government handouts will affect the undeserving poor. But that's the best part! I am, above all else, a compassionate conjurer. However, I also believe in individual responsibility. So I make this offer. You've heard of 'The Square Deal.' You've heard of 'The New Deal'. Well, I propose…'The Rumpel Deal'! Any individual, from any class, who would like to better his or her lot in life, is free to appeal to this administration and I, personally, will construct a deal for you that you simply won't believe! Remember, such a deal is what placed me where I am today. I'm not just the instigator of The Rumpel Deal, I'm its most successful customer! Yet I'm willing to share this opportunity with you, be you prince or pauper, because, darn it, I'm just that type of guy! So starting tomorrow, we will begin taking applications from those stout souls who choose to take advantage of this most magnanimous offer. But for tonight, relax, celebrate, and remember…ask not what you can do for your kingdom; ask what your kingdom can do for you!"

The people broke into even louder applause and cheers. A chant of "_Rum-pel! Rum-pel!_" started among many in the crowd. Rumpelstiltskin's face broke into a wide grin and suddenly fireworks started shooting off into and exploding in the night sky. As people became caught up in the celebratory display, the bright bloom of exploding rockets reflecting in their eyes, the image of Rumpelstiltskin's head started fading away until nothing was left but the grin, which remained some time after the rest of it had gone. (Dama had a feeling that this was as 'transparent' as Rumpel's administration was likely to get.) Then the light behind the coat of arms also faded and the balcony curtains drew closed again.

Dama, upstaged and ignored, just shook her head. The little runt had done it, captivating these gullible dupes and capturing, for a time at least, their allegiance. She wasn't sure which she felt more of, disgust or…envy. She had spent years carefully and meticulously cultivating her public image, while with equal care and patience she had carried out her secret political machinations until she had become the most powerful person in the kingdom. Well, until today, blast it. But now this brazen huckster had shown up and with audacious hyperbole had these people believing they could have more freedom from the government while simultaneously becoming even more reliant upon it – or upon _him_ – for their personal happiness. But there was a key weak point in this audacity of hype. He could _not_ have ended Fiona's curse. Dama was sure of that; the spell was much too strong. _Only_ True Love's kiss could do that. Of course, the curse itself was still a secret, but Fiona's imprisonment by the dragon was widely known. Yet if Rumpel couldn't end her curse, then it was highly unlikely that he had ended her imprisonment, as the two were so closely entwined. So he had told a bald-faced lie, and had made that lie a keystone of his legitimacy. If Dama could prove that, then she could reveal to the people that this would-be emperor had no clothes, thus removing his public support. Then she could move on to repeal the imp's vulgar ascendancy and replace him through a coup of her own, with Charming riding in like a white knight to the rescue with Fiona in tow, to save the kingdom and set things the way they were meant to be. Of course, there would be problems to overcome – not the least of which being the spellbound knights and soldiery. But first things first: expose the lie and rip out the seed of Rumble's claim to legitimacy before it had a chance to take root.

Dama turned toward Kyle. "Back to my cottage, _now_," she ordered. The chauffeur nodded and opened a carriage door. Dama flitted inside, and Kyle shut the door and nimbly hopped up onto the driver's seat. A moment later the carriage flew off into the night sky, away from the fireworks display, streaking a trail of fairy dust behind it.

* * *

So intent was Dama upon her mission that she didn't notice she was being followed. A band of dark-clad riders had surreptitiously taken off on broomsticks from somewhere along the unlit back of the castle as Dama's carriage sped off into the night. The riders stayed low, hugging the tree line and keeping as much distance from both the crowd and Dama's high-flying carriage as possible while also keeping the carriage in sight. There were six brooms, each piloted by a witch, but one of the broomsticks also carried a passenger: a giddily smiling imp, now wigless and dressed in plain dark clothes, who was quite pleased with the way things were working out so far. So quiet, cautious and camouflaged were they that even during the few seconds when their far silhouettes briefly emerged from behind the cover of the edifice and sped off in pursuit of Dama that none of the crowd in the courtyard who were still transfixed by the bright and booming fireworks exploding in a much higher and entirely different part of the night sky noticed them. But then, misdirection had always been a magician's most valuable tool.


	10. Of Cottages and Kings

**Layer 10: Of Cottages and Kings**

Dama's carriage dropped from the sky and screeched to a landing just in front of her cottage, kicking up a cloud of mixed regular and fairy dust. Not waiting for Kyle to descend from his seat to open the door for her, Dama shoved it open and flew out, and without setting her feet on the ground soared to the cottage door, threw it open and buzzed through.

Nobody was in the waiting area except Jerome, sitting behind his desk. He was so startled that he nearly fell over as he leapt to his feet, his chair overturning and clattering to the floor behind him. "Fairy Godmother!" he said nervously. "There is—"

"Not now, Jerome," Dama snapped as she flew across the room, alighted before the reception room door, tossed it open and stormed through. She strode down the hallway and into her office and slammed the door shut behind her.

Dama approached one of her bookshelves, tossing her wand onto a plush couch as she did so. She noted the one-foot diameter crystal ball sitting upon its small stand on the top shelf, just where she'd left it. She flitted up, grabbed it, blew dust off of it (had it really been that long since she'd used it?), and then descended again to land just behind her desk. She sat the ball on its stand in the middle of the desktop and took her seat. She closed her eyes and breathed several deep breaths, forcing herself to calm down. Then she opened her eyes and concentrated on the opaque ball. She reached out and placed her hands on either side of the orb as the opaqueness yielded and clouds started swirling within it, and its cool smooth surface began to warm and throb slightly. "Show me inside the tower chamber of Princess Fiona," she said in a low, mystical tone. The swirling of the clouds within the ball became more agitated, and then coalesced into a scene showing the interior of Fiona's tower-prison. She was in ogress form, it being nighttime, sitting on her bed and knitting something, struggling to work by the flickering torchlight.

"Aha!" Dama said. "I _knew_ that little rodent was lying!" Now that she could prove that Rumpelstiltskin was a liar, she could call a press conference for the next day – when the sun was up and the princess was in her proper human form, of course – and theatrically reveal that the new 'king' was a fraud. And then…well, there were a few possibilities, all of which brought a grin to Dama's face.

As Dama mulled the possibilities over, she continued watching Fiona. What _was_ she knitting, anyway? It was hard to tell; it didn't look like any kind of covering or garment – except maybe a belt; it did look somewhat rope-like. Could she actually be trying to knit a rope that she could use to climb out, to escape? The thought that Fiona might be trying to escape on her own unsettled Dama. But no, there wasn't enough material in the room for the princess to be able to knit a rope of sufficient length and strength to descent the high tower exterior.

Whatever it was, the princess's face had a look of determination as she struggled at manipulating the knitting needles with her pudgy ogress fingers. Dama chuckled. It had been quite a while since she had tuned in to Fiona's room; but it was always a boring show, almost as bad in its way as _Real Scullery Wenches of Worcestershire County_, as the princess went through her incredibly dull daily routines. But then, ogres tended to be dull, private, predictable creatures, frustratingly happy to live out their own simple, disgusting lives in the swamps and bogs they seemed to love for some ungodly reason and be left alone…although quick to anger if crossed. Plus they were obstinate – such as Fiona was demonstrating now with her diligence at…whatever it was she was knitting. Dama shook her head. The poor, sad creature. How disappointed Fiona would be to find out her _truly_ 'proper' form really was so much closer to this great green glob, had been since the day she was cursed, and had just been reinforced by the lonely years where she had had to subconsciously draw on her ogrid tolerance for isolation and obstinacy of purpose. In fact, Dama wondered how much – if anything – remained of the human Fiona beyond the beautiful shell that she occupied during the day. Of course, it would be that shell, that form, that she would assume full time once Charming kissed her, and the shell – the image – was the important thing. Fiona had been conditioned since childhood to be obsessed and fixated with becoming 'Mrs. Fiona Charming', the bride of a bold and handsome rescuer, and if _that_ wasn't True Love, what was? Once wed, Fiona might eventually notice that her inner feelings and desires were a bit odd and out of place for life as a queen in a castle, but that really didn't matter. Her destiny was to marry Charming and eventually sire offspring, preferably male. Who cared about her feelings? She would be a queen sitting in the lap of luxury; she'd just have to learn to shove her private deviances into a closet and deal with it.

At times Dama almost felt sorry for Fiona. But then she reminded herself, as she had had to occasionally remind Harold, that Fiona wouldn't even _exist_ if it wasn't for her. And how many other scores of women would literally kill to be in Fiona's eventual place as a pampered queen, let alone only have to give up a few years of their life in relatively benign solitude? If Fiona still felt antsy after marrying Charming – well, they would have to find some sort of charity work or harmless humanitarian causes to fill her time; it would keep Fiona occupied and the publicity would reflect well on the monarchs as a couple. Dama just wished that Harold and Lillian – mostly Lillian – hadn't insisted on leaving so many books of consequence in the tower for Fiona to read. The fairy stories and manuals on decorum were fine – they even reinforced what was expected of her – but some of the other books were too likely to give Fiona ideas beyond her appropriate role in life. An educated woman, with eyes opened to possibilities beyond what society's rules and strictures for women ordained and the will to pursue them, could be a dangerous thing. Dama, a self-educated and ambitious woman, knew that all too well. But Dama had developed a certain fondness for the pitiable princess over the years, watching her like a pet goldfish in a bowl, and hoped that she could allow Fiona to live out her life, even after her usefulness to Charming had ended, in quiet, docile peace – as long as she kept her place. Dama would hate to have to deal with a restive Fiona in another, more unpleasant way. But what had to be done, had to be done. Fortunately, whenever Dama had tuned in to Fiona's room before, she had usually found the princess reading her fairy tales or playing with her dolls or telling them stories about how she looked forward to her rescue and living happily ever after – all signs that her mind was staying in the right place.

Still…what _was_ it that the princess was now knitting? And why was she so intense? This was new…and still disconcerting. Dama leaned closer to the crystal ball, trying to figure out—

"Excuse me, Fairy Godmother," Jerome's tentative voice sounded from the doorway. Dama, startled, looked up to see that the elf had opened the door far enough to peek his head and upper body through.

"What is it, Jerome?" Dama demanded. "I'm rather busy right now."

"Yes, Fairy Godmother. I'm sorry, Fairy Godmother," Jerome stammered. "But…there is someone to see you."

Dama's brow furrowed. "I didn't see anyone in the waiting room," she said, then more accusingly, "and I thought I had told you cancel the rest of the appointments for the day when I left."

"You did, Fairy Godmother. And I did, Fairy Godmother. But this is not a client. It is…an inspector."

"An _inspector_?" Dama repeated. This was a surprise. A most unwelcome surprise.

"Yes, Fairy Godmother."

Dama sighed. "Very well," she said irritably. "Send him in."

"It's actually a 'she', Fairy Godmother. And she actually wants you to go to her, Fairy Godmother."

Dama let go of the ball and slapped the palms of both hands down atop her desk. "What?" she fumed as the image of Fiona's room faded away.

Jerome shrank away even more, until he was nearly out of the room entirely. "She would like to see you, Fairy Godmother. She's waiting in the potion room."

"You let her onto the shop floor…_and into the potion room?_" Dama said, her face turning dark pink.

"I'm sorry, Fairy Godmother. I had no choice, Fairy God—"

"Just stop," Dama said, thrusting out her hand dismissively. She took a moment to collect herself, and sighed. "Let's just get this over with." She grabbed her wand from the couch and again took to the air. As she passed Jerome in the doorway she paused and looked down at the cowed little elf, who seemed to wither under her glare. "We'll more talk about this later," she said, and without waiting for a reaction, flew down the hall and over the railing of the banister overlooking the factory shop floor.

The first thing that Dama noticed was that the diminutive minion laborers in their white hazmat suits were just milling around the floor in apparent confusion. Next, she saw to her great irritation that the assembly line had stopped moving, and valuable time-sensitive formulas were sitting in flasks in various stages of completion along its length. "You idiots!" she thundered, hovering high above their heads. They lookup up at her like natives at some terrible, angry god, and they cowered in fright. "What is the meaning of this?"

They all turned and pointed at the doorway with closed double-doors that was carved out of the trunk of the great tree that had been incorporated into the stone masonry of the far wall of the room. Above the door was bolted a sign in decorative luminous pink lettering that read, 'Potion Room'. Dama narrowed her eyes. "Get back to work!" she growled, and without waiting to see if her command was answered, flew like a large, angry bumblebee down toward the potion room doors. She alighted just short of the doorway, pulled open one of the double doors, and strode in. The spring-loaded door automatically swung closed behind her.

The interior of the room, which was hewn from the interior of a great hollow tree, was cylindrical, about thirty feet in diameter, and lined up to a height of some forty feet with shelves upon which sat a great variety of potions in all manner and shapes of glass containers. Most of the shelving was open, but there was one section of the shelves about twenty feet up that was enclosed in a locked glass container, with a sign beneath that read 'Restricted Access'. That is, it was _normally_ locked. Right now it stood propped open, and one of the bottles of potion was missing from it. It was no mystery where it had gone; at the opposite end of the room stood a dark-clad witch, with tall crooked witch's hat perched above a head where shoulder-length greasy brunet hair framed a greenish gray tinted, hook-nosed face pock-marked with blemishes. Her broom, which Dama assumed provided the means of her reaching the restricted shelf, rested against the shelving beside her. The witch didn't immediately notice Dama, for her attention was riveted upon reading the label on the flat-bottomed Florence flask of luminous light blue fluid she held in one hand. Dama immediately recognized it as the 'Happily Ever After' potion from the restricted shelf; a potion which simultaneously provided 'beauty divine' to its drinker and his or her True Love – a potion that was difficult to make, whose ingredients were rare, and which was _very_ expensive. Tucked under her other arm the witch held a clipboard from which dangled a frayed bootlace, at the end of which was tied a raven's feather quill.

Dama felt a flare of anger. She wasn't sure which of the few elves she trusted with the key to the case had betrayed her, but her money was on Jerome. If so, she'd make sure his goateed little head would roll. But she realized, as she watched the witch, that there were more immediate concerns to handle right then.

Dama folded her arms and glared at the impertinent witch. After a moment Dama said coldly, "Can I help you?"

"G'aah!" the startled witch sputtered and swung around to face Dama, accidentally dropping the flask as she did so. It crashed upon the stone floor.

Dama looked down upon the light-blue puddle beneath the shattered glass fragments for a moment, and then back up at the witch, who she now saw wore a tin badge of some sort pinned to her chest. "You're going to have to pay for that," Dama said, nodding toward the puddle. "Pity you broke it. It could have done you _so_ much good. And you are…?"

At Dama's insult the witch's startled expression turned to annoyance. In response to the Godmother's query, she responded, "Baba."

Dama raised an eyebrow. "Is that your name, or are you a transmuted sheep?" she asked.

Now it was Baba's turn to glare at Dama. "I am the newly appointed Inspector General, Magical Regulatory division for the kingdom of Far Far Away," she said, touching her badge, "and I have some bad news for you." She took the clipboard in both hands and looked down at it the parchment clipped there. After taking a moment to focus and clear her throat, she said, "You have been found in violation of 263 counts of potion potency limitations, 52 violations of statute 66 subsection 6 against providing potions or amulets whose magic may affect others without their knowledge or consent…" here Baba nodded down toward the shattered bottle before continuing "…13 violations of the pristine kingdom preservation act through inadequately filtered factory emissions—"

"Are you quite finished?" Dama asked. She had been waiting, arms crossed, her patience wearing thin and anger building as Baba recited her litany.

Baba looked up. "It goes on," she replied. "Unfortunately, you won't." Baba tucked the clipboard back under an arm, reached into a pocket and pulled out a scroll. She held it out toward Dama with one hand and it unfurled. "Due to the excessive number of violations, this decree allows for the confiscation of this factory and all adjoining buildings. This property is to be placed into receivership of a party designated by the Crown, I'm afraid."

Dama's eyes widened in disbelief, and then narrowed in fury. "Oh, yes, my dear, you _should_ be afraid," she growled. Unfolding her arms and aiming the wand, its tip glowing brightly, at the witch. "Be _very_ afraid."

Baba looked at Dama's flushed face for a moment as her own blanched. Then she whirled toward her broom, tossed the scroll and clipboard into a small cauldron that hung from its bottom, then pulled out a small jack-o-lantern, the carvings that made up its eyes, nose, and mouth already glowing from an eerie inner light. Turning back to Dama, she pulled the jack-o-lantern back in one hand like a pitcher half-way through her throwing motion. "Don't move!" she said, trying unsuccessfully to sound more threatening than frightened. "I—I've got a loaded pumpkin here, and I'm not afraid to use it!"

Dama, taken aback by the absurd sight before her, lowered her own threatening posture somewhat. "You've _got_ to be kidding me," she said.

Trying futilely to keep the tremor from her voice, Baba said, "Even if you…well, if I…I mean, we'll still take it all away from you."

"Really?" Dama said, lowering the wand and regarding the witch as the unimportant dupe she was. "You and what army?"

Dama contemptuously turned her back on the witch, pushed one of the doors to the potion room open and strode back onto the shop floor…only to find herself met by a group of the twenty-some elves that made up her private security force. They were all dressed in the same light-blue uniforms, and all had their automatic crossbows pointed directly at her. Their lean faces held looks of grim determination. A few paces away, beside the first rank of security elves, stood Jerome.

Dama stared at them, not afraid, but aghast at the effrontery.

"Will _this_ army do?" she heard Baba's voice from behind her. Dama turned to see the witch standing nearby, just outside the now-closed potion room doors, her broomstick in her hand. She had a little smirk on her face, which quickly vanished under Dama's withering scowl as the witch slunk back against the wall.

"I'm sorry, Fairy Godmother," Jerome said, causing Dama to jerk her head in his direction. He then defiantly held out his own scroll. "Through agreement with King Rumpel, we are taking over receivership of this factory, until we may purchase it outright." He lowered the scroll and looked at her. "This land," he said, his voice bearing notes of both relief and satisfaction, "is once more ours."

"Yours?" Dama said scornfully. "Ha! You fools. You ungrateful little fools! You have no _inkling_ what I've done for you!"

"What you've done _for_ us?" Jerome retorted. "You received sanction from the king to steal our business, our land, our home – and you turned it all into nothing but a cold, heartless factory, and turned us all into slaves!"

Dama raised an eyebrow. She was slightly impressed; the little elf had never shown such gumption before. Of course, having a company of bowmen keeping her trained in their sights surely helped. One corner of her mouth lifted in a scornful half-grin. "Indeed?" she said. "Might I remind you that the reason I was able to purchase this property was that you creatures couldn't keep your cute little enterprise solvent. The lot of you couldn't even outsell the bloody Muffin Man, and _he's_ a sole proprietor!"

Jerome, taken aback, winced. Dama's wicked grin now extended across her entire mouth. Actually, she _had_ been involved in some behind-the-scenes activities of questionable ethical quality, and she _had_ forced Harold to have his regulators surreptitiously overlook the finer legal aspects of some of her maneuvers, but she saw no need to concede that to Jerome now. Instead, she pressed her attack.

"As to slavery," she said, "who's holding you here? You were always free to walk out that door. You had no spell binding you. You could have left at any time." She then looked over the bowmen. "All of you! You could have left. Why didn't you?"

Jerome and the bowmen, who had appeared so firm and resolute only moments before, now started to look more uncertain. She decided she'd best answer her own question lest someone work up the courage to do so in a way that undermined her advantage.

"I'll tell you why," she said. "Because, despite your petty complaints about the hours or the conditions, the pay or the benefits, you were too lazy or too cowardly to take a chance somewhere else. Or you realized that out there in the workforce you'd have to prove your qualifications, and how so sorrowfully lacking in any you were. So you stayed here because _I_ tolerated you. Despite the grumbling and kvetching – and don't think because I wasn't around that I wasn't aware of your whining – _I_ was the one putting bread on your tables and roofs over your heads. You don't think if I fired you all right now I couldn't round up another gaggle of workers from some other mythical minority to replace you? _Ha!_"

Now Jerome and the bowmen were looking even more shaken and unsure. Many of the bowmens' aims wavered, and a few lowered their crossbows altogether.

"But—but—the agreement," Jerome stammered, putting forward his scroll again, but without nearly the confidence he had shown before.

Dama sneered at him. "That's just a piece of paper," she said. "This is _my_ factory, _I_ built it, and _I'm_ not giving up so easily. As for your scroll and your arguments, Jerome…" Dama then remembered the twenty-foot tall bronze vat standing a few yards to her right, the properties of the mixture that was brewing within it, and the effect it would have upon contact with elves. An idea occurred to her which, due to the expense and mess that would ensue, she would never have seriously considered under more normal circumstances. But right now her anger was up and her need for a destructive outlet overruled her sounder judgment. The grin on her face now expanded to demoniacal proportions. "As for your scroll and your arguments, Jerome," she repeated. "They're for the birds."

Dama flicked her wand in the direction of the vat. A burst of blue-white lightening leapt from the wand's star tip and shot over to envelop the massive container. Still sparkling, it rotated seemingly of its own accord upon its wooden turntable base which groaned under the weight. The elves looked up, seemingly frozen in dread at the sight, until the vat's lip was pointed in their direction. Then, with a creak, it began tipping forward.

Jerome and the other elves screamed. Too late, they turned and started running away, most of the bowmen dropping their crossbows in their panic.

"G'aah!" Baba sputtered as the first trails of a purplish-pink luminous fluid started streaming over the top of the cauldron and splashing onto the shop floor. She leapt onto her broom and took off into the air. Dama didn't notice where she went nor did she care. She was engrossed in watching the poor, idiotic elves fleeing from the inevitable. She calmly fluttered her wings and rose into the air a safe distance as the vat completely tipped forward, dumping gallons upon gallons of its contents across the floor and streaming toward the elves. A split second later they were all engulfed, and as the concoction splashed over them their anatomy was immediately altered so that where a moment before there was a fleeing elf, a terrified white pigeon took off and began fluttering aimlessly amongst the rafters.

"Sorry, boys," Dama said without a trace of true sorrow, "but you picked the wrong day to tick me off."

Just then the sound of clapping up above and off to the side caused Dama to jerk her head in that direction. On the walkway just beyond the railing near the door to her office stood Rumpelstiltskin, applauding. A huge evil smile, not unlike the one that had just adorned Dama's face, was smeared across his own. Three grinning witches stood, leaning against the railing, to either side of him. A moment later Baba descended, hopped off her broom, and took a stance by his side.

"Brilliant!" Rumpel said, laughing. "I've got to hand it to you, Fairy Godmother, I've not seen a labor movement liquidated so thoroughly and heartlessly since the governor of that northern province last year!"

"You!" Dama snarled. With a flurry of wings she sped upward toward him, her grip tightening on the handle of her wand as its tip began glowing brighter and hotter.

The smile dropped from Rumpel's face and he took a few hurried steps backward. "Witches!" he said, and the seven witches all took stances in front of him, each drawing back a small illuminated jack-o-lantern in one hand.

Dama stopped her flight a few yards in front of and above the company of intruders and hovered there, wand at the ready. She glared down at each witch in turn; their smiles were also gone, replaced by expressions mixing resolution and trepidation. Then Dama glared most venomously down at Rumpel.

"You dirty little man," she spat. "What have you and your carriage park carrion done with Harold and Lillian?"

"Oh? Didn't you catch my first speech as king this evening?" Rumpel replied, regaining some composure and even smiling slightly. "I thought it went rather well. Heck, _I_ think it deserves an award."

"I heard your speech," Dama shot back. "You lie! I know that Fiona's still in her tower, not reunited with her parents."

"Okay, I guess maybe I jumped the bow on that one," Rumpel admitted. "But Fiona _will_ be reunited with her parents in their present blissful home some day. At least, that's what the clerics say."

Dama's eyes widened. "So you really did…good God!"

"God had little to do with it," Rumpel said. "My style better fits the other side. As to the fate of my royal predecessors…let's just say they no longer ride this plane of existence. Beyond that…well, that's not my problem."

"No," Dama said, a threatening tone returning to her voice. "_I'm_ your problem."

"_And_ my solution!" he said, suddenly jovial. "In fact, we're each others' solutions!"

"_What?_" Dama said, surprised and confused by his unexpected response.

"C'mon into my office," Rumpel said, gesturing back to the door to Dama's office, "and I'll explain. Then we can discuss a deal."

"It's _my_ office," Dama retorted haughtily, hovering straighter. "And do you think I'm an idiot? I'll make no deals with you!"

"Oh, but you haven't heard what I have to offer!" Rumpel said, almost gleeful now. "C'mon, let me show ya!"

With that, Rumpel turned, pushed open the door to Dama's office, and strode into it as if he owned it – which, Dama reflected irritably, he literally did…for the moment. The other witches followed him, but more carefully, as they kept glancing back at her and held their jack-o-lanterns at the ready. But eventually they had all entered, leaving Dama to just hover there, staring at the open, empty doorway. This was embarrassing. This wasn't how she had begun envisioning her confrontation with the imp to go. She looked back and up at the birds that had been her security force as they perched and fluttered helplessly and aimlessly between rafters. She sighed, and then turned back to the doorway. She glanced at the glowing star tip of her trusty wand. Satisfied that she would be ready if Rumpel or his witches tried anything violent, she flew down and alighted upon the walkway in front of her office. Taking a deep breath, she strode through the doorway, trying to project an air of confidence while remaining circumspect about the goings-on around her.

The witches were standing three to her right side and four to her left. They were several paces back and appeared to pose no immediate threat, although they still kept their jack-o-lanterns ready. Rumpel, for his part, was sitting upon the front edge of her desk and grinning at her. His impertinence started reigniting her temper, but then he again said something unexpected that took her aback: "First, Fairy Godmother, I want to thaaaank you! You're the one that's made my pending empire possible!"

"What?" she said, confused. "What are you rambling about, Stiltskin?"

"Oh, I know you didn't _mean_ to," he said. "In fact, you did everything within your power – and within the king's power, I might add – to suppress me and any other magic users that might pose a threat to you and your _own_ little empire." Rumpel's grin faded and as he continued speaking his placid demeanor cracked and he became more agitated, his voice became angrier, and his words came out more quickly. "Between potency and scope regulations that you somehow managed to obtain exemptions or oversights for, and somehow managing to secure the copyrights to all the most popular and powerful spells and potions, you built yourself up quite a nice little monopoly, driving me and my witches into virtual exile and forcing us to live off crumbs you deigned beneath your dignity to bother with!"

Rumpel had finished his last sentence in one great breath, and now he sat there, panting, his body trembling, his eyes fixed on Dama with seething resentment.

Now, though, it was Dama's turn to put on a placid demeanor. "Oh, come now," she said, allowing her voice only a trace of contempt. "You give me too much credit. You drove _yourself_ into exile. _My_ customers have all walked away happy, their problems placated or solved. _Your_ customers, Stiltskin, could hardly boast the same. Word of mouth means a lot, my repugnant little fiend, and your reputation became poison. Even when you could have made a deal that left the signatory happy as well as benefiting yourself, you managed to pervert it so that they suffered in the end. And why _was_ that? Let's explore that, shall we? Is your personal nature just so twisted that you feel psychopathically compelled to do so, or is the source of your magic so dark that it only works if the poor duped signatory has to suffer in the end?"

Now a grim little grin returned to Rumpel's face and he seemed to recompose himself. "Well, you might find out sooner than you think," he said. "But as for _all_ your customers being happy, does that include the little frog prince?"

Dama blushed. "How did you—" she began, then quickly shut her mouth.

But Rumpel's grin widened at her reaction. "How did I know about your deal with Harold? Well, I'll tell ya. Not too long ago – although quite some time from now – I made the deal of a lifetime. Or of my lifetime. It cost someone else theirs. But you ought to thank me…it will save yours, and will save your son, Prince Charming…yes, I know he's your son…quite a bit of distress and embarrassment."

Dama's brow knitted in confused frustration. It was unsettling enough that he knew about Charming being her son as well as her dealings with Harold, but the rest of what he said… "What are you babbling about, now? Start making sense!" she demanded, taking a step toward Rumpel and prompting the witches to take wary steps toward her in response.

Rumpel chuckled, apparently amused at Dama's confusion and loss of composure. "It's simple, really. The deal I made with Harold originally fell through. And it fell through because someone else rescued Fiona."

Dama gaped. "What?" she said. "But the dragon! How did he defeat—"

"Quite unconventionally," Rumpel said. "But that's not important right now. The point is, he did. So that ended up destroying both our plans. And, to make a long story short – actually, three long stories – he married Fiona, you tried to undo the marriage but ended up getting yourself killed, and then your bereaved but still ambitious son attempted a coup which also flopped and he ended up broken and disgraced. Nice tries, but epic fails on both your parts. Totally pwned!"

Rumpel's derision irritated Dama but she tried recomposing herself despite it. "Then, whom might I ask was Fiona's rescuer?"

Rumpel laughed outright, then said, "You wouldn't believe me if I told you!"

"I don't believe you now," she said. "You're making this whole silly story up."

"Then how did I know about the frog prince? Or that Charming's you son?"

"Lot of ways that make more sense than that fairy tale you just told. Since Harold stupidly made that deal with you, he may simply have told you then. Besides, you just claimed you _didn't_ make the deal with Harold and this interloper destroyed _both_ our plans."

"Ah, but that's the best part!" Rumpel said, brightening. "And – really, the most ingenious part, I must say. I made a deal with Fiona's husband to trade a day of his life for a day where he could go back to being a carefree o—uh, bachelor. And so I gave him his one day in return for taking—"

"His birthday," Dama said, matter-of-factly. "Causing him not to be born and thus unable to rescue Fiona and ruin your deal with Harold."

Rumpel blinked. "Yes," he said, slightly perturbed, "well, as they say, great minds think alike!"

Dama shrugged. "It's not a particularly original concept."

"No, but I did add my own delicious spin on it!"

"So tell me, if this…this alternate reality never happened, how do you have such vivid memories of it?"

"Because I'm the instigator and one of the signatories of the contract that altered it."

"So Fiona's husband would also remember. He got one day, you said. Does he even exist any longer?"

"First, he's not Fiona's husband any longer—and never _will_ be," Rumpel replied, with particular emphasis on the last part. "Second, none of that concerns you. You're not the hero of this tale – I'm not compelled to confess all my plans to you."

"Not even the part where you explain how a toad like you can convince anybody to sign a contract once they really learn of your reputation? 'The Rumpel Deal', indeed. Even if nobody learns about Harold, you've left quite a trail of other bad deals and broken dreams. What will happen tomorrow when a little investigative journalism proves what a villain _you_ are? I can just hear the town criers now, hawking their pamphlets on every street corner exposing their 'new king' as disreputable shyster! Your credibility will be completely shot."

"Oh, I don't think that will happen," Rumpel said smugly.

Dama frowned. "What do you mean? If you plan on shutting down papers and violating the Manga Carpal—"

"I have no such heavy-handed plans…yet," Rumpel said. "I don't need to. Early today, on the way into town, I stopped by the home of a competent but little-read news writer, a vulpine fellow by the name of mister Fox E. Loxy. He's an underground journalist, but wants to move up in the world. Well, we soon had a signed contract. Now, Loxy News will magically become by far the most popular and trusted source for information throughout the kingdom, with all its stories unofficially designed to promote my party line. It'll be fantastic!"

"Oh, Please," Dama said. "Even with magic, don't you think people will see through that?"

"You'd be surprised what people see," Rumpel replied, "when they only view the world through the spectrum of their favorite color – be it red, or blue, or any other. In this case, people will only want to see the path to their personal prosperity. And, as I said earlier, that's a path _you_ blazed for me."

"What on earth do you mean by that?"

"Let me spell it out for ya. First, by cutting off any aid to the most needy, they'll either have to suffer through an absolutely medieval life of begging and scraping and as likely as not ending up in debtor's prison, or take advantage of a totally voluntary personal aid 'Rumpel Deal' – which, because it is voluntary, doesn't violate the Manga Carpal. Heck, it doesn't even use any public funds. So what do you think they'll choose?"

"Likely you, of course," she said. "But because it's a deal with you, they'll end up broken and worse than if they'd never signed, even if they didn't think that was possible."

"Ah, but not at first!" he said, a twinkle in his eye. "At first, they'll prosper. Oh, they'll prosper! Suddenly this street scum will be riding in the best carriages and buying the finest homes. And I'll hold them up quite publicly as shining examples of what a Rumpel Deal can do. You can bet other people will notice this. People who are doing okay or even well, but have been indoctrinated for years by _you_, my dear Godmother, to want more. To never be satisfied. To always seek to not only keep up with the Joneses, but to better them. Tell me, whenever you went into one of your high-pressure marketing spiels, was even _one_ person _ever_ secure and self-confident enough to say, 'Thank you very much Fairy Godmother, but I really don't need all this'?"

Dama's eyes widened a bit as she realized the extent of Rumpel's plan – and how likely it was to succeed.

Rumpel, noticing Dama's reaction, smiled fiercely. "Ah, I see you get it. In order to promote yourself and your own business interest, you've created a voracious consumer culture, a culture itself consumed with commercialism and the pursuit of self-satisfaction, with expectations so high that only your magical solutions could begin to satiate it. When they see people they regarded as human refuse suddenly doing not only well, but _better_ than they are…well, then they'll want a Rumpel Deal of their own! And they'll get one, too, and they, too, will do quite well – at first. And as the highest upper class see these upstarts doing even better than they—"

"Yes, as you said, I get it," Dama interrupted. "Soon you'll have virtually everyone bound up in one of your deals. And then, after everybody's bound to you—"

"Boom!" Rumpel said, gleefully throwing his arms in the air. "The bubble bursts, and all their wealth, both new and old, becomes _mine_. Call it trickle-up economics. Trickle, heck, it'll be a torrent! A torrent upload into _my_ personal coffers!"

Dama ground her teeth while she watched the little imp sitting there, chortling. "So tell me," she eventually asked, "where's all this wealth that's magically being transferred back and forth coming from?"

"Neah," Rumpel said, flipping a hand dismissively. "I'll let the next generation worry about that. Oh! And speaking of the next generation…"

Rumpel nimbly rolled backward on the desk, did a brief handstand, then pushed himself upward, flipping in the air and adroitly landing in a sitting position in Dama's chair. He studied her, a sardonic grin on his face, as the inside of the crystal ball that sat between them started to swirl with its inner mists. His smug and now predatory demeanor was disconcerting her, and she was having a hard time trying not to show it.

"Here's that deal I promised," he said. "Give me your wand, agree to forfeit this factory to me without further fight, and you can have your boy back."

Then the mists in the ball parted to reveal the face of Prince Charming.

"Junior!" Dama cried, dropping all pretense of poise.

"Mother!" he cried back, and began to lean forward. But then he was pulled violently back, and the image in the ball panned back and Dama saw that Charming was sitting, bound to a chair with his arms behind him. To either side of him stood two witches. The one nearest his right held a long and cruel looking dagger.

"Well?" Rumpel asked. "Will you give me the wand?"

"Oh, I'll _give_ it to you," she snarled. The star tip of Dama's wand suddenly burned its brightest as she thrust it toward Rumpel with her right hand. "Now here's _my_ deal. You let my son go, _now_, or I'll—"

So distraught was Dama at seeing her son endangered, and so intent at concentrating on the vile little figure planted in what to him was a ludicrously oversized chair, that she dropped her guard and didn't notice the metallic chattering sound off to her right. Suddenly something struck and latched painfully onto her right wrist, knocking Dama's wand from her hand. She gave a curt "Ugh!" as she looked down to see what looked like a tarnished steel skull, about half the size of an actual one, attached to her wrist, its 'teeth' biting hard enough to have a firm grip but not quite enough to pierce the skin. The skull was attached to a chain, and Dama glanced to her right to see that the other end of the chain was held by one of the witches a few yards away, the crone's sardonic grin aping that of her master.

Dama looked back down. The wand was on the floor just in front of her now, its glowing tip starting to fade. She quickly leaned down and tried to grab for it with her left hand but just before her fingers touched it one the metallic skulls flew in from her left side, seizing that wrist. "AGH!" she sputtered in pain and frustration as the witch on the other end of that chain jerked her hand up and away from the wand. Then the whole coven was upon her. Dama tried to struggle but her resisting arms were forced behind her. The steel skulls were removed and Dama felt her wrists and arms being bound with more conventional rope.

"Mummy!" Charming called frantically from inside the ball. "What's happening? Leave her alone, you hags!"

"Junior! Can you hear me?" Dama said.

"Yes," he replied. "I'm hearing and seeing you in a small crystal sphere that one of the hideous creatures before me is holding forth." With that, one of the witches jerked on his bonds, and he winced.

Dama nodded. Inter-crystal communication. Otherwise to see him he'd need to be at a psychic hotspot or a pre-enchanted location like Fiona's tower room. "Junior," she said, trying to calm herself and hopefully him. "Don't provoke them. Just…just do what they say. Mummy will think of something."

"Awwww," Rumpel said, hopping from the chair and prancing around the desk to stand before her. "That is just _so_ sweet! The mama grizzly and her cub. It just warms the cockles of my heart."

"You _have_ no heart," Dama spat at him.

"Now, now, watch that temper," Rumpel said, leaning down and picking up the now inert wand. "It may be the death of you yet."

"Don't you _dare_ harm her, you filth!" Charming roared from the ball.

Rumpel waved down Charming with one had while still keeping his eyes fixed on the wand he held with the other, twisting the handle around and studying its star. "Oh, just get down off your high horse, Princey. Wait, I forgot, you already are. Sorry my witches had to ambush you at Weyleigh Pass and disrupt your little quest. But I don't plan to harm one glittery little silver hair on her head." Then he did look over at Charming. "As long as _you_ do one little thing for me."

Charming scoffed. "_I_…do something for _you_, gnome? I think not!"

"Well, then, if you insist…" Rumpel trailed off, and slowly turned the wand down to point at Dama.

"No! Wait!" Charming said. "All right, whatever you want. Just…don't hurt her."

Rumpel let out a burst of laughter, then, addressing the witches around him, said, "Isn't it ironic, ladies? All the devious schemes and plans of diabolic nature, and it's _love_ that brings them down. There's a fable in there, somewhere. Or at least a nursery rhyme. Anyway…" he looked back at Charming. "What I want is simple. My witches will let you go, and you will complete your journey to the dragon's keep."

Charming looked confused. "But…they said that you're the king now."

"True."

"So Fiona is no longer in line of succession. What good would her rescue do you?"

"Or you, for that matter?" Rumpel suggested.

Charming shrugged.

"Ah, that's more the Prince Charming I know; that good ole 'What's in it for me' attitude. Anyway, that's none of your concern. Remember, it's not Fiona that you'll be rescuing as much as Mommie Dearest here. And don't get any bright ideas of attempting a more direct rescue of everybody's favorite Fairy Godmother. You'll be on a strict timetable: any delay, or side trips, and, well…" Rumpel used the wand to mime slitting his throat.

Charming blanched. "Fine," he said. "I do this for you, and then you'll let her go?"

"And what of Charming?" Dama said, her tone skeptical "would you then let _him_ go?"

Rumpel sighed. "Yes, yes, yes," he said, and turned to Dama. "You have my word; if Charming does this for me, you'll have your boy back."

"_Your word_," Dama said mockingly.

"I'm afraid, unlike me, you don't have an alternative," he retorted.

Dama closed her mouth and glared at him.

Rumpel smiled, and then he turned back to Charming. "Oh, there's just one little deviation from your original rescue scenario I need you to perform."

"And what is that?" the prince asked.

Rumpel explained what he wanted done, and how long Charming had to do it. "You devil," Charming said in disgust.

"I'm workin' on it!" Rumpel said giddily. "Now, go do your duty for king and country!"

Charming's icy stare latched onto Rumpel as the crystal ball began to mist again. The prince's image faded into the clouds and a moment later the clouds themselves faded until the ball was dull and lifeless once more. Rumpel then turned to face Dama, a sinister smile on his lips.

"Stiltskin," she said, "you _are_ a monster."

"But a successful one," he noted. "Jealous much? It's nothing either of _you_ wouldn't do if pushed to desperation; trust me, I know. But one thing I must ask, Godmother…you don't plan for Charming to actually _fight_ the dragon, do you?"

"What do you mean?" she said, not quite able to make her question sound as innocent as she wanted.

"Oh, I just doubt that you'd leave your precious son's life, not to mention your shot at the kingdom, to the outcome of a fair fight with a dragon, however skilled you think Charming is."

Dama shifted uncomfortably.

"Oh, c'mon," Rumpel prodded. "There's nothing more to lose now. As one old mage to another…what's the catch?"

Dama sighed. What more _was_ to lose? "His scent," she confessed. "When arranging to have Fiona imprisoned, I managed to magically steal the dragon's voice. The dragon can still make animalistic sounds, which with effort could be turned into a type of language, but as for her true voice…well, I made a deal with her to return it if she agreed to keep Fiona imprisoned and fight off all potential rescuers until one came bearing his scent. If Charming rescued her, the dragon got her voice back. But if someone else did…or Fiona somehow escaped…then her voice was gone for good."

Rumpel smiled broadly. "How deliciously devious!" he said. "Godmother, I am truly impressed! It sounds like a deal worthy of myself…of course, I'd be tempted to throw in a catch of my own, you know me. Then again, it's not usually wise to go messin' with dragons. So, tell me, how are you 'keeping' the dragon's voice?"

Dama thought of the conch shell containing the dragon's voice that she kept locked in a hidden safe, and realized it best stay there lest the imp consider making a deal of his own with the dragon and endangering her son. "I shan't tell you that," she said. "Not until Charming returns safely."

Rumpel laughed. "Why, Fairy Godmother!" he said. "If I didn't know better I'd swear you didn't trust me!"

When Dama didn't respond to his gibe, Rumpel turned his attention back to the wand. "So, tell me _this_," he said, waving it about and shaking it, "how do you get this thing to work, anyway?" Then the wand head began to glow. "Ah! Never mind, I think I'm getting it."

Rumpel held the wand before him, its brightening star tip a foot or so from his face. He smiled, apparently imaging what wielding such a devise could do to augment his already considerable power. Then suddenly the star tip exploded, producing a collective gasp from the witches. Rumpel, who had not moved, was left standing there, staring angrily at the charred and smoking tip of the wand handle, his face blackened and hair blown backward from the explosion. Dama couldn't help but chuckle at the sight, and Rumpel slowly shifted his angry stare at her.

"Identity theft protection," she explained. "All my wands have it."

"Very funny," he said without mirth. "Take her away. We'll await Charming's return…and then we'll see who gets the _last_ laugh."


	11. Flight from Captivity

**Layer 11: Flight from Captivity**

The eagle was circling the castle towers on its way back to its nest when it heard the singing. A melodious, "Ah ah ah, ah ah ahhhh, ah ah ah, ah ah, ah ahhhhhh…" that for some reason drew it closer. Soon the eagle saw the source – the window of the highest room in the tallest of the towers. It had sometimes noted a human female leaning there during the day, but now, despite the singing, the window was barren. The eagle, now drawn by curiosity as well as melody, swooped to the tower window. A second before it landed on the brick window sill the singing suddenly stopped. Perching on the sill and furling its wings it looked inside – and saw four of its companion birds all perched upon a curtain rod set atop the headboard of the bed, their heads covered by crude hoods and their feet bound by wrappings of yarn. The startling sight helped prevent it from noticing the human figure leaning flat against the inside wall beside it. Before the eagle could react a hand suddenly thrust out and grabbed it by the neck and it found itself wrestled to the floor. As it opened its beak to attack its assailant the latter's other hand thrust a hood over its head and drew a string at the bottom to secure it. As the now blind eagle tried to claw its opponent with its talons the hand that had secured the hood quickly grabbed the bird's feet and held them together as the hand that had seized its neck let go and a moment later started winding yarn around the feet until they were securely bound.

* * *

Fiona let herself plop into a sitting position on the stone floor. She panted heavily as she watched the bound and hooded eagle flap about futilely on the floor for several seconds. It was the last eagle, and she had come out of that encounter unscathed. Unfortunately, it had taken a while for her to get the capturing technique down just right, as the bloodstains that seeped through the makeshift bandage on her wrist could attest. Still, now it was done. She had assembled a convocation of five roughly three-foot high eagles. She _should_ have had six, she thought with regret, and glanced briefly and queasily down at the messy remains of the first eagle that she had tried to trap, which she had shoved to the side. She hadn't realized the effect her full-throated singing could have on birds, and it had taken her nearly an hour to recover from the trauma after the poor thing had exploded. Since then she had toned down her singing: enough to attract, but not enough to…destabilize. She shook her head. No doubt another side-effect of her curse. The gift that kept on giving.

Once the eagle stopped struggling and her own breathing steadied and her adrenaline level dropped, Fiona reached down and picked the eagle up by the legs. It began struggling again, but Fiona shushed it and gently stroked it as she began quietly humming the song once more. The eagle quieted down, and Fiona led it to the headboard where she sat it down upon the curtain rod next to its fellows. She then took more of the yarn from months' worth of crocheting that she had unraveled and tied the eagles' feet with each other, leaving enough slack so that, in flight, they would be able to space out with enough room to flap their wings. She had also woven enough strands together in a type of rope to support her weight so that when the eagles flew, she would be able to hold onto the yarn that bound them, and used knots in such a way that she could pull certain stands and release individual eagles. Her idea was that she could ride the eagles away from the tower and over the lava moat, at which point she would start releasing the eagles one-by-one, steadily lowering herself to the ground beyond. That was the theory, anyway. She thanked Heaven that one of her young adult storybooks was a sailing adventure where the author had spent what she thought at the time was way too much detail on knot-making.

_Did I mention that this is a really stupid idea?_ a voice in her head spoke. _Oh, yes, only about a zillion times!_

She tried to ignore the voice. Of course this would work. It had to work.

It just _had_ to.

Fiona continued humming softly, keeping the eagles calm, as she finished the last knot, in her mind reciting the apt mnemonic, _the dragon goes under the bridge, through the loop, and finally, into the castle_. Then she glanced out the window and noticed that the sun was frighteningly low. "Oh, please, no. Not now," she muttered. She was so close. She wasn't entirely sure that these eagles could hold her human weight – Heaven knew _what_ would happen if they had to carry her ogress weight. If only, instead of this contrivance, she could have just jumped onto the back of a _really_ large eagle and simply flown away – but she put that thought aside; she had to concentrate on the task before her, not be side-tracked with silly fantasies. _And this isn't a silly fantasy?_ that irritating inner voice spoke again. She mentally shoved it aside. As the bottom of the sun caressed the top of the horizon, she briefly considered waiting until morning – but no. She was too hyped now, too afraid to wait another night, lest the eagles escape somehow, or another knight show up for his death…or her common sense have a chance to overcome her courage.

Steeling her resolve, Fiona detached the curtain rod from the headboard and then picked it up with both hands, causing the birds to flutter their wings and caw in alarm. She hummed a bit louder but still in the slow, soothing cadence to calm them again. She struggled to hold the weight of the rod with the convocation perched upon it, but somehow managed – perhaps it was the adrenalin, perhaps she was somehow drawing strength from her alter ego whose dread appearance was drawing nigh, or perhaps it was just sheer grit and resolve. In any event, once the eagles were settled, Fiona carefully made her way to the window. Glancing at the horizon, she fought down her own panic when she saw that the sun was half-way set. She worked the curtain rod with the eagles carefully through the portal. Then, determinedly, she set one foot on the top of the window sill, leaned forward and poked her head and upper torso through, then had to pause for a moment to make sure she retained her balance, then quickly lifted the other foot so that she was standing precariously with both feet on the window sill, leaning outward and holding the curtain rod with the eagles atop it over her head. As she tried to keep her balance she made the mistake of looking down, and had to bite her lip to stifle a scream. Far down below an inlet of lava separated the land upon which her tower sat from the rest of the courtyard, with a stone bridge spanning the bubbling, molten river and connecting the tower to the rest of the keep. If Fiona fell now it was even money whether she would smash against stone or perish in fiery magma. As if to taunt her, a breeze suddenly picked up, causing her ponytail to waver and her stance to sway slightly.

What was she _thinking?_ How could she even be certain that the eagles – even five of them – could bear her weight, even as a human? Then she looked back at the sun again and realized with only a quarter of it still shining over the horizon that the human element would all-too-soon be an academic question. With a final rush of determination, she took hold of the yarn rope with one hand, said, "Okay, let's do this, guys," then reached up and quickly unhooded all the eagles in quick succession. When they saw their own predicament, they began cawing, let go of the rod – which tumbled downward to plop into the lava – and tried flying away. Fiona winced at the frenzied cawing for fear it would alert her keeper, and then gasped as she grabbed onto the taughtening yarn rope with both hands and felt her feet being lifted from the sill. As her feet slid off their perch one of her green soft-soled slippers slipped off her foot and plummeted downward, became caught in the breeze and was blown to a landing somewhere to the castle grounds far below.

For a moment, Fiona feared that she truly had miscalculated, for at first she dropped like a stone. But then the eagles spread apart as far as their bonds would allow, flapping their wings madly, and the fall slowed and then ceased altogether. Fiona found herself being borne by the birds, roughly some hundred yards from the ground, and tried to let the feeling of elation over realizing her calculations were correct override the pain in her hands as the strands of yarn she held bit into them it bore her dangling weight. As they passed over the lava moat and then the crest of the volcano's rim, Fiona had to fight the urge to scream a loud 'woo-hoo!' in triumph lest the dragon hear her. But just a bit further and she could begin releasing the birds and begin her gradual descent to the ground.

That was when the last trace of the sun's disk set below the horizon. Fiona saw the wisps of swirling golden cloud appear around her. "No! Please! Not so close…" she whimpered, but all to no avail. She felt the change taking her. She held on tight to the yarn and squinched her eyes shut as the metamorphosis briefly racked her body.

The birds cawed even more loudly, as suddenly they found themselves transporting a dramatically different and considerably heavier creature. But although the first few yards' drop was precipitous, the eagles beat their wings faster and the drop slowed. It didn't stabilize altogether as it had previously, but when Fiona finally dared to open her eyes she found that the ground was approaching, but at a pace whose result would be far lighter than a crash landing. The princess laughed. This was actually working to her advantage! She could just ride all the eagles to the ground, and once there, release them, and they she would be on her way—

It was then she heard the dragon's roar.

Fiona gasped and looked back over her shoulder. The dragon was charging from out the keep's front opening. The large red beast stopped for a moment, looked up, saw Fiona with her avian bearers, and roared again. Suddenly Fiona had flashbacks to all those times when she had been a little girl newly arrived in her prison, when the dragon would appear at her window to taunt and terrify her, at times trying to force her to eat chunks of vile-looking meats torn from Heaven knew what types of creatures – the worst part of which was that the obnoxious food _did_ send Fiona's foul ogrid stomach rumbling, as if the dragon knew it would and was mocking her and attempting to undermine her humanity, thus making Fiona despise the offering all the more. Now Fiona felt more helpless than she had as that frightened little girl, without even the false security of brick walls between her and the dragon's wrath.

"Oh, no!" she said, and then looked down. She was still some forty yards in the air over the rocky terrain that made up the downward slope of the volcano's cone. Desperately, she pulled one of the yarn strands to release one of the eagles. As it flew away to freedom Fiona felt her rate of descent increase, but when she looked down again she still had some thirty yards to go. She glanced back again. The dragon had just taken flight and was heading straight at her, its roaring mouth open and long pointed teeth bared.

Fiona moved her head forward again but closed her eyes. She had read that ogres were considerably tougher than humans, and could absorb more punishment. Now was the time to test that. If she survived the fall, she might be able to find some hiding place among the creases and crevices of the terrain below – it might be a poor chance, but surely a better one than if she stayed in the air in the path of an angry, charging dragon. She pulled the strands of yarn to release all of the remaining birds at once. As the eagles flew away, Fiona found herself in freefall. She screamed, wondering if she would survive contact with the ground.

She would never find out, for just before she landed her scream was cut short as she was suddenly snatched by one of the dragon's front hand-like talons. "Noooo!" Fiona cried, opening her eyes and seeing the ground again getting further away as the dragon flew them back toward the top of the tallest tower. Fiona looked up at the beast that held her firmly in its clutches. At first she was terrified by the massive, living horror of the thing; it was the closest she had been to it since it had visited her as a girl in the tower. Somehow it seemed even bigger now. "Let me _go!_" Fiona yelled. The dragon looked down, stared at her for a moment, and then opened its mouth wide and roared again. Fiona's breath caught at the stench of sulfur, and the velocity of its breath sent the skin of her plump cheeks rippling and her ponytail whipping behind her. For a moment Fiona feared the beast would toss her into its mouth and devour her like a large green bon-bon. But then the dragon turned its head forward again. Oh, well, Fiona, thought, at least she wasn't being eaten. Not yet, anyway.

A few moments later they were back near the top of the tallest tower. The dragon pulled to a stop and somehow managed to hover there, adjacent to Fiona's room. It then opened the talon that held Fiona, palm upward so that Fiona found herself lying upon it. The dragon moved the talon level with the sill of the room's window, the window that the princess knew too well.

Fiona looked back at the dragon. It stared at her, but the expression on its reptilian face was no longer angry, just…annoyed. After a few seconds it jerked its snout toward the window, as if directing Fiona to pass back through the portal into her room.

Fiona blinked. The beast's actions now didn't resemble an animal's at all. As she looked into its eyes, Fiona almost thought she saw some sort of intelligence lurking behind them.

The dragon jerked its snout back at the window again.

Fiona kept her eyes trained on the demonically slitted pupils of the dragon's yellowish green eyes as the princess slowly rose to her feet and stood precariously on the beast's paw, her bare foot relating its leathery texture. "You want me to go back in there?" she asked, waving an arm toward the window.

The dragon rolled its eyes and then nodded impatiently.

Fiona gaped for a moment, and then said, "You understand what I say!"

The dragon rolled its eyes again, sighed, and once more nodded.

Fiona stared at the beast a bit longer, her curiosity starting to best her terror. She looked beyond the monstrosity of the dragon and started noting details. Such as prominence of red in its lips, and its elongated lashes, and just something about the set of its features…

Fiona's eyes opened wide. "You're a _female_ dragon!" she declared.

For the briefest moment the dragon's expression softened, as if Fiona's recognition of the dragon's femininity had somehow tempered her bestiality.

"Please!" Fiona said, allowing her newfound knowledge of the dragon's gender to give her hope that it would be more receptive to her entreaties. "I beg you. You must understand. I've been here for years. _Years!_"

The dragon shrugged. Then it lifted the front talon that wasn't holding Fiona and snapped its fingers.

The gesture confused Fiona for a moment, but then she got it. "You mean it's just a drop in the bucket to _your_ lifetime," she said.

The dragon nodded.

"Well, those lost years mean a lot to _me_," Fiona said, feeling a spark of anger despite her precarious position. "Hasn't my presence brought enough meals to your doorstep to satiate your copious appetite?"

The dragon, looking annoyed again, as well as increasingly impatient, shook her head and once more gestured with her snout at the open window.

The dragon's flippancy and implacability spurred Fiona's own growing anger, and she spoke words she would never thought she could while cowering in her room: "Have you grown _that_ lazy that you have to rely on _me_ to provide your livelihood?"

The dragon's expression clouded, her eyes narrowed, and her lip curled menacingly. But the ogress's own blood was up, too. The rage of her own inner beast combining with the years of anger and frustration to overcome her common sense, Fiona crossed her arms, straightened her spine, lifted her chin, and said indignantly, "No! I _refuse_ to play the worm on a hook any longer. I am Princess Fiona of the kingdom of Far Far Away, within whose domain this keep falls. Monster, I _command_ you to put me down on the ground this instant!"

* * *

Dragon looked down at the insolent ogress standing heavily in the palm of her talon, the creature's plump green face turned sideways and its pudgy nose turned up snootily. Dragon shook her head. Even in this bloated, odorous form, with features that Dragon knew humans found hideous, and even in her current precarious predicament, her charge insisted on maintaining her insufferable, infuriating manners. She had done so ever since she had arrived in the castle. And a pity it was, too. Dragon, lonely after so many years of solitude, then had such high hopes that at last she might have a companion; someone who, at least on one level, knew what it was like to be looked upon as just a beast, and with whom she could commune as a kindred spirit. Maybe even befriend. In those early days Dragon had, several times, appeared at the child's window and tried to open some sort of dialog – horribly hampered by that blasted, thieving Godmother's stealing her voice – but Dragon had tried the best she could, even offering to share samples of some of her best recipes from her kitchen which she felt certain that Fiona would enjoy, at least when she was an ogre. But each time the haughty little princess, whether in human or ogre state, had rebuffed her, returning Dragon's overtures with insults. Dragon had hoped that the brat's attitudes might change as she matured, but they had not. And she had hoped, just a moment before, when the princess had recognized her femininity – had seen her as a _she_ and not an _it_ – that something might develop. But no – now the princess had reverted to the pompous brat…a brat that needed to be taught a lesson. Dragon was tempted to grant the princess's demand and simply turn her palm over – her stolen voice and the deal with the Godmother be hanged – but perhaps a less lethal punishment would suffice.

One of the eagles cawed from somewhere many yards behind them. Dragon glanced back at it, and then turned to look at the princess again. Although at one level Dragon admired the escape attempt – the princess had certainly shown some unexpected gumption, ingenuity, and bravery – such attempts had to discouraged and, where possible, their means removed. Dragon realized an action that would achieve both psychological and practical means to that end – and provide her with a little snack, as well.

Dragon reached down with her free talon and plucked the ogress up by the back of her dress. Fiona screamed – a sound that Dragon found rather satisfying after her little tantrum – as Dragon lifted the princess off her other talon, over the top of the conical brick roof above the highest room, and then set her roughly down on the sloped side of that roof. She wanted her to get a good and uncomfortable view of what was about to happen. Fiona scrambled for and found foot and hand-holds in a couple of the openings that had been left by crumbled or fallen bricks in the neglected structure. Dragon flew back a few yards, hovered while she examined Fiona to make sure she had a stable enough hold, then turned and flew away.

"Wait!" Fiona called, her fear apparently having returned and driven away her bravado. Dragon ignored her. Instead, she set her sights on the eagle whose caw she had just heard. The eagle saw her, panicked, and tried flapping its wings faster in an attempt to escape. But its speed was no match. A moment later, Dragon's mouth closed down upon the unfortunate bird.

"Noooo!" Fiona half-screamed, half-moaned. Dragon only glanced at her…and smiled as she swallowed. _You say that I'm a monster_, Dragon thought, _then I'll be what you say_. She then honed in on the next closest eagle, and a few moments later her jaws snapped on that fleeing bird.

As Dragon chased down and devoured the princess's remaining flight team, she noticed Fiona's demeanor shift yet again. "S-stop it!" the princess called as she managed to slowly and carefully pull herself into a half-standing position as she clung to the tower roof. And as Dragon bore down on the last of the eagles Fiona called out sharply and angrily, "Stop it, _now!_" and stamped one foot down on the brick with all her might. The bricks cracked and the roof immediately collapsed, Fiona falling through the opening with a sharp, short scream.

Alarmed, Dragon allowed the remaining eagle to escape as she flew back to the tower. She alighted against it, the claws of her front and rear talons digging into crags in the brick as she peered down into the new, five-foot wide hole in the tower rooftop. There she saw Fiona, her green felt dress dusty and torn in a few places, laying face-down among chunks of brick and stone on the floor of her room, coughing as she tried to recover from the fall.

That was where Dragon made her mistake. She dropped her guard as she looked down at Fiona and wondered what injuries she might have sustained, and allowed her scaly brow ridge to rise in a facial expression of concern, thus exposing an area between her eyes unprotected by scales. The sound that Dragon made was misinterpreted by the princess.

"What, you murderous beast, is killing those poor innocent birds and defeating and humiliating me not enough…have you come to _laugh_ at me now, too?" Fiona half spat, half sobbed, still facing away from Dragon as she pushed herself up and rose awkwardly to her feet…her right hand clandestinely keeping firm hold of a bowling ball sized chunk of stone as she did so. "Well, don't you _dare!_"

With that last word, Fiona whirled toward Dragon, simultaneously whipping the stone forward and hurling it at her. Dragon had only a split second to register the ogress's flushed face, wild eyes, and bared teeth. Then, either through incredible luck or some inherent and unsuspected gift on Fiona's part, the stone, with all the velocity imparted by an enraged ogress behind it, smashed hard against the exposed area right between Dragon's eyes, and everything went black.

* * *

Fiona saw the dragon's head snap back as the beast gave out a sharp, surprised 'urk'. The reptile's eyes rolled back in her head, then her lids closed, and then she began falling backward. The ogress stood, teeth still bared, panting furiously, heart pounding, as she watched and listened. A moment later she heard the scrape of loosened claws against the exterior of the tower as the beast lost her hold, and then a few seconds later a great splash from down below as the dragon had apparently fallen into the lava-filled inlet.

Fiona waited, her anger slowly yielding to fear, as she continued standing, eyes trained on the hole in the roof, acute ogre ears pricked and straining for the inevitable sound of the furious dragon's wings from bellow, and then Heaven knew what sort of wrath she'd loose against the princess. Fiona shuddered as she could almost see the brick walls crumbling and feel the flames broiling her skin.

But nothing happened. From below, Fiona heard the usual sounds of boiling lava rumbling and the sporadic bursting of bubbles, but nothing more. No sounds of the dragon at all.

Both physically and emotionally exhausted, Fiona collapsed into a sitting position on the floor, releasing a great breath she wasn't even aware that she'd been holding. She panted for a while as sweat beaded on her forehead and began running down toward her eyes. Reflexively, she took out her handkerchief, wiped the moisture from her forehead, and distractedly stuffed the favor only partially back under her left sleeve. Her mind was elsewhere.

She had done it.

She, a lone, helpless maiden, had defeated a dragon. A dragon that had killed scores of brave, strong knights.

A little smile crept unbidden up one corner of Fiona's mouth. Helpless indeed, she thought. She lifted her right arm and looked upon the hand that had slain the beast. For the first time, Fiona did not turn her eyes away in disgust as she observed the disproportionably large paw of a hand, with its thick green skin and plump fingers capped by nails triple their human density, so unlike her dainty human female hand with its long, thin, delicate fingers. She noted a few nicks and scrapes from her fall through the roof, and as she slowly turned her hand to face her palm she noted the scuffs on the inside of the fingers where it gripped the stone that had amazingly felled the dragon. Fiona then impulsively curled her fingers together into a fist and flexed her arm, feeling the tightening of the muscles of her fore and upper arm. She reached over and set her left hand upon her upper arm, feeling the bicep there just beneath the too-thick covering of flesh. It did not bulge as seen in the sculptures of mythical gods and heroes, but it was firm and taught.

Fiona wondered…just how strong _was_ she? She glanced around the room, and her eyes fell upon her bed. She got up and hurried over to it, feeling a strange, giddy excitement. Squatting down, she grasped the bottom of the footboard of the large, heavy structure. Then she straightened her legs. It took a little effort, but Fiona found herself standing erect, holding the foot of the bed three feet off the floor. She smiled. _She_ had done _that?_ She found herself giggling, and mentally slapped herself. This was silly…and undignified for a princess. She slowly lowered the bed until it was back on the floor, noticing as she did so her slipperless foot. She absently kicked off the remaining slipper and reached under the bed for a new pair, not noticing as she did so that the favor dropped from her sleeve and onto the floor. She then slowly turned and, as she sat on the bed and put on the new slippers, tried to digest everything that had just happened.

It appeared that she was actually free of the dragon.

Now what?

With the dragon dispatched, the need for immediate escape would seem no longer to exist. She could simply wait to be rescued.

But for how long?

Fiona remembered that, over the course of her imprisonment, sometimes months – once more than a year – passed between rescue attempts. She found her eyes drawn to the tapestry that covered the wall where she had marked off all those many days of waiting, and now she found the thought of simply staying here, marking off who knew how many more such days, simply unbearable. Of course, another one of that Lord Farquaad's knights might arrive…or they might not. Even if one did, Fiona now found the prospect of being delivered as a bride to such a person as Farquaad, from what she had learned of him, to be less than thrilling. _Even if it ended your curse?_ she heard that voice within her mind ask. Not that long before, the answer would have been obvious: as long as it ended her curse, then she'd be glad to marry Farquaad. Better the devil unknown than the ogress known. Now, though, she wasn't so sure. Then she thought back on her conversation with the last knight that had arrived, and her contempt for this Farquaad returned. Share True Love's kiss with such a man? She didn't see it happening.

Then another thought struck her. What if the dragon wasn't really dead? Fiona had originally assumed the dragon would be returning immediately with a vengeance. Then she assumed the reptile was slain. But what if she wasn't…what if she were just stunned?

Fiona nearly leapt to her feet, a tingle of fear returning. No, she would need to leave, right now. She would cross the bridge and head back toward Far Far Away. Once there, she and her parents would simply have to figure something else out, as in her original escape plan.

The princess took one last look at her bookcase, petted Mr. Fluffy, and leaned down and kissed Felicia. "Maybe with luck I'll have a _real_ daughter with your name, soon," she said, smiling. "With her own Sir Squeakles doll," she added, and pushed on the belly of the smaller doll in Felicia's lap, causing it to squeak. Fiona stood, backed up a few paces, and then stared at her long-time 'family' for several seconds. "Fare thee well," she said. Wiping away an embarrassing tear, Fiona turned away.

For a moment her eyes caught the hole in the roof again. Looking at it now, it reminded her of…something. She couldn't quite place it. Had it been from a dream? Well, it didn't matter now. If it was, then that dream, like so much else, was in the past, and no longer mattered.

She turned to face the door.

It still seemed almost as imposing as it had for so many years before.

Fiona took a deep breath and then strode forward, pausing just before the door. After just a moment's more hesitation she reached forward and grasped the handle. She tried to turn it, but it resisted, having rusted over the years. Fiona tried to turn it a little harder, and suddenly something cracked and she found herself holding the dislodged handle in her hand. She blinked at it for a moment and then chuckled, finding something about the situation almost comical. Then she fitted the handle back into the lock, worked with jiggling it for a while, and then carefully turning it this way and that. Finally she heard a more normal-sounding click, and she smiled with satisfaction and pushed outward.

The door quickly abutted against something. Fiona's smile vanished as she pushed again a time or two and then realized the problem: the door was barred shut from the other side.

Fiona felt surprise. Then annoyance. And then anger. Barred from the other side by people fearing…fearing what? That she's try to escape? That the prize princess would choose to leave her prison? That she would finally build up the courage to cast off this farce of an existence and follow a different path? That the poor, pathetic ogress might dare to show her face where it might embarrass people? Is that what the ogress might do?

"I'll show you what else this ogress can do," Fiona snarled, a flash of rage briefly driving away further thought. Lifting one large leg, she cried, "_Hiiii-yah!_" and kicked hard on the door just beside the handle. The door crashed forward, splintering the wooden plank that had been barring it and even dislodging the moorings that had held the plank in place. Fiona suddenly found herself staring through an open doorway which opened upon a staircase that curved downward into darkness. Twilight having now almost completely yielded to night, it made that darkness that much more deep and foreboding.

Fiona, her rage abated, swallowed nervously as she stared forward. After several seconds, she walked over to her dresser, pulled out a candle, lit it, and then, gripping it tightly, returned to the doorway. She paused for a few seconds more, trying to shove aside her last trepidations. "Well," she eventually said in a quavering voice, "this is it."

She then stepped forward over the threshold, and paused after she had done so. It had been a relatively small step in actuality but it left Fiona feeling as if she'd just swam the Rubicon. Taking another deep breath, she strode forward and began descending the winding stairway.


	12. Confronting Demons

**Layer 12: Confronting Demons**

Fiona slowly made her way down the winding stone stairway. Cobwebs and dust were everywhere. Occasionally she heard the heard the sound of a rat scurrying away just before she rounded a corner. And every so often she saw that whole chunks of the outside wall were missing. Fiona paused at one or two of the huge jagged gaps in the masonry to examine them, wondering whether they had been made by some assaulting force or by the dragon's wrath.

She noted as she descended that it was growing hotter, and when at last she reached the bottom of the stairway and stood before an archway that opened upon the thirty or so foot stone bridge that spanned a lava inlet, connecting the tower to the rest of the castle, she felt sweat popping out on her brow again. She reached for her handkerchief and found that it was missing. "Rats!" she muttered. She briefly considered going back and looking for it, but then decided against it lest the retreat blunt her resolve. Besides, for all she knew she could have lost it in the flight from or to her tower room. Putting further thoughts of it aside, she took another deep breath and started across the stone bridge. She tried to keep her eyes focused forward as she walked, and tried not to wonder about the stability of the ancient bridge which separated her from the bubbling, boiling stew below.

When at last she had made it across the bridge and stood upon the threshold that opened into the castle proper she paused and again released a breath she was not aware that she had been holding. She then dared to turn and look back, at first across the bridge, and then her eyes traveled up, up, up along the length of the tall tower. Fiona focused her ogrid vision, a bit better in the dark than her human sight, upon the high apex of the tower and thought she could make out the speck of the window from which she had spent so many days staring out and daydreaming of the day of her deliverance. A wry smile tugged at a corner of her mouth. She had never dreamed it would happen like _this_. Then she turned away from her past and walked into the keep.

As she made her way down the stairs and hallways she felt as if she had wandered into a scene envisioned by Dante. Stone pillars and sections of walls were crumbled and their debris scattered across the floor, which was itself cracked, splintered, and even buckled by fissures in many areas, and from those fissures emanated a hellish glow from the lava below that was so bright that no other light source was needed. Fiona wondered how many of the structural wounds were caused from upheavals in the volcanic foundation, and how many were the result of the dragon's battles or tempers.

Worst of all were the corpses.

When she was younger a steady stream of would-be rescuers had shown up at the castle, eager to dispatch the dragon and claim their prize. As Fiona wandered the castle, she saw that they had not all been devoured. Time after time she saw the pile of bones and charred armor and weaponry where a knight had been immolated where he stood. The remains of one unfortunate lad sat against a wall just below where a burn outline of his final moments had been captured in the stone, and where in what must have been a moment of horror he had raised his arms in a futile attempt to shield himself from the fiery blast. Fiona shuddered. She wondered, if one of the trickle of recent rescuers had succeeded in saving her, would she have even noticed the human wreckage strewn throughout the castle, or would she have dismissed it as the unfortunate but inevitable expectations of the fairytale scenario. The knights showed up, swords drawn, banners flying, and performed as they were properly expected to. That some would fall, collateral damage to the fulfillment of the story's outcome, was unfortunate but inevitable. It was their fate to fall, as it was her fate to be rescued. But now, after having actually spoken to one of the knights and recognizing his unique humanity, and realizing that each of these other men had their own dreams, their own souls, and their own stories, she found her faith wavering. And now, having come face-to-face with the dragon in battle herself, however unorthodox a duel it had been, she found it had raised her empathy even higher with these poor felled souls, however brave or deluded they might have been. Again she felt the touch of irony, for now here, wandering about the castle in her ogress state, she had never felt more in touch with her own humanity.

She came to what she assumed was the dragon's kitchen, with huge vertically mounted vats resting against one wall, oversized utensils that looked more like pitchforks and shovels – in fact, upon closer inspection she realized that they _were_ pitchforks and shovels – hung against another, in front of which sat two five-foot tall barrels of what Fiona found were salt and pepper. A few feet away a ten-foot high cauldron sat atop a pile of charred planks and beams. Beside the cauldron Fiona saw an oversized book, some eight feet tall, leaning against a wall. The book was closed, and its worn cover was made of some sort of leather that she couldn't quite identify. Upon that cover was imprinted in large lettering: _To __Serve __Man_.

Three things struck Fiona. First, that such a grossly oversized book even existed. Next, that such a book in that location implied that the dragon could actually _read_. Third, that the dragon would own a book with such a noble title. Curious, she opened the cover and looked at the carefully stenciled table of contents. At first the headings confused her: 'Templar Tartare', 'Stuffed Whole Friar', 'Knightly Treats', and so on. Then she leafed through a few pages, complete with detailed instructions and illustrations – and she realized with horror what she was looking at. "_To __Serve __Man_…it's a cookbook!" she gasped, and shut the volume in disgust. She took a few steps backward and nearly stumbled over a pile of weaponry and armor. Fiona just managed to keep her feet as she knocked what had been a neatly stacked pile askew, sending the discarded instruments of rescuers past clattering and clanging across the floor.

Fiona paused, closing her eyes and resting one hand on her bosom as she fought to regain control of her breath. Enough. She had to leave this house of horror. She opened her eyes, and saw attached to the top of an archway a few yards away a rectangular metal sign with red luminous capital letters spelling 'EXIT'. She nodded, and started toward it.

She stopped dead in her tracks when she heard the dragon roar. Unconsciously, her ogre ears pricked to rapt attention.

The roar came from outside the castle, from the area where the beast had fallen into the molten inlet. It was followed by a splashing and then sucking sound, and then the sound of the dragon's wings beating. Fiona's breath caught, and she feared the reptile would come crashing into the castle at any moment. But instead, she heard the beat of the wings receding as the dragon flew upward.

Fiona was confused for a moment, and then realized that the dragon was heading toward her now unoccupied tower room, intending to do…Heaven knew what to Fiona when she got there. Only the dragon didn't know yet that the room was unoccupied. She would soon find out. And when she did…

The princess cursed her luck. Of _course_ the fiery lava had not killed the fire-breathing dragon. You may as well try to drown a fish. Fiona realized that she was foolish to have hoped so. Now she struggled to determine what to do next. Perhaps make a run for it, out of the castle, across the bridge, and beyond? With the dragon now awake and aware, the chances of getting even half-way across that bridge were perilously thin. Unlike herself in this form, she thought ruefully, which made her chances even less likely. Perhaps she could hide behind the recesses and passages of these crumbling walls, avoiding the dragon like the rats in the walls avoided her? Even assuming she could find any such recesses wide enough, that might buy some time, but having escaped a benign imprisonment in the tower, she did not look forward to trading that for the life of a frightened vermin. Besides, the dragon may know this place well enough and her senses may be acute enough to easily smell her out…and dig her out.

Fiona, her fear rising, took a semi-conscious step backward…and her foot set upon one of the pieces of weaponry that she had scattered before. She looked down and saw that it stood on the cylindrical wooden shaft of a lance. She stared at it for a moment, and then reached down and picked it up. The shaft was partly blackened, but still serviceable. And it ended in a large, wicked looking and – as she found out when she touched it – still very sharp steel spearhead. A true Sicarious Dracorum – a 'Dragonslayer'. It was a pity that it had not worked for its original owner. Fiona hefted it, surprised at how light it seemed to her. But then, she had surprised herself a few times that night. Perhaps she could use the spear to…

But that was a foolish idea. If its owner, who was no doubt skilled and practiced with it, had failed to use it to dispatch the dragon, what chance did a rank amateur such as herself have? Besides, the dragon's hide was scaly and tough, and unless she connected right between layers of scales even this weapon might night pierce it. And to have a good shot a doing that, Fiona would literally need to be on top of her…and the odds on the dragon letting her get that close were not good.

But then, Fiona had felled the beast once from a distance – if only temporarily – with just a stone. If she could do the same with this…

But no. She had caught the dragon off-guard, and her throw had been lucky. The odds on the dragon giving her that opening again, and an untrained Fiona being able to hit it, were just too small.

But then again, that small spot between her eyes that the dragon had temporarily shown was not her lone vulnerable spot. Fiona recalled that the area around its breast and underbelly didn't look nearly as armored as its other parts. If she could just get a clean shot at it…

But mightn't the spear's original owner have had such a shot? If so, it had done him no good.

But as Fiona looked down at the large green hand that now gripped the shaft, she thought on how the original owner hadn't the strength of an ogre to power the weapon. She hefted it again.

_Are __you __INSANE?_ Fiona heard that irritating voice of reason rise again in the back of her mind. _What, __now __you __think __you__'__re __a __dragonslayer? __Talk __about __delusions __of __grandeur! __Look, __the __dragon __obviously __has __some __degree __of __intelligence, __so __maybe __if __we __throw __ourself __down __and __beg __forgiveness__—_

"Stop it!" Fiona said aloud. "I can _do_ this!" She tightened her grip on the shaft and her eyes narrowed. Beneath her fear, she felt something else. Something primal. Something that not only told her that she could rise to this challenge, but _wanted_ it. Where did that come from? Was it the ogre nature trying to assert itself? She had tried to repress any feelings, any thoughts, any desires that she suspected might come from that hidden monster for so long, was it possible that she could now use it? Drop the shields and embrace that part of her being? And if she did so, and if she managed to somehow triumph, would she – _could_ she – then be able to stuff it back away into its guarded little compartment? Well, that was a question for a later time. For now, the imperative was survival. If she failed that, then all the rest was academic.

From somewhere far above she heard the dragon roar. Her eyes followed the sound, and that little unbidden smile played yet again at one corner of her mouth.

* * *

Dragon was furious. Furious at herself for dropping her guard and giving that ungrateful little ogress an opening to knock her out, all because Dragon had actually felt _concern_ for her! (_Compassion_, Dragon reflected about herself. That was her problem. She just had too much _compassion_.) And she was furious at the perfidious ogress for taking advantage of that compassion. Well, that wouldn't happen again. Dragon wasn't sure exactly _what_ she would do when she reached the ogress's room, whether she would just simply terrorize the creature or end this deal now, and dictate to the Fairy Godmother and her kingdom a _new_ deal. Dragon had tried to be nice, and having the occasional delivery instead of having to go take-out was a plus, but keeping the ogress was becoming more trouble than she was worth. As for what the Fairy Godmother might do with her wand…well, Dragon had a suggestion for that.

Dragon reached the tallest tower and alit atop it. She paused for a moment to shake off the last drops of lava, both those that were still molten and those that had cooled into little back rocks, from off her scaly hide. Then she curled her lips back to bare her teeth and carefully looked into the hole in the roof.

Dragon frowned. The ogress must be hiding. Well, Dragon couldn't say she blamed her; the ogress had probably heard Dragon coming, and feared she'd get what she deserved. Dragon looked a little closer. There weren't many places in the room that could conceal her…not in her stout beastly state. She couldn't be under the bed, not without it having a prominent rise somewhere in the mattress. And the tapestry had no bulge that would have to have been left by her bloated shape. After a few more moments of examination Dragon lifted her head, shifted her perch, and then leaned down to look – upside-down – through the window. There she saw the open door across the room.

Dragon moaned as she lifted her head, and then rolled her eyes. Idiotic humans. Didn't they know enough to reinforce the door sufficiently so that when the ogress reached adulthood she couldn't just force the wretched thing open if she became sufficiently provoked to do so? Well, obviously not. Dragon sighed. Her charge was more than just _becoming_ more trouble than she was worth. Still, Dragon couldn't help feeling somewhat impressed by the princess's newfound determination – even if it didn't make Dragon's job any easier. She was sufficiently impressed that she decided she wouldn't kill her charge. Not tonight. She'd need to recapture her, of course. But how to prevent her from escaping again, now that her prison door had proven insufficient? Well, there were alternatives. Perhaps Dragon would collapse the stairway, and when the Godmother's son arrived instead of just letting him pass she'd go and fetch her for him. It was hardly the romantic rescue the deluded princess had imagined, but it was never intended to be the innocent fairytale she presumed anyway. Besides, Dragon suspected from the events of this evening that the princess might finally be outgrowing those delusions.

Enough rumination, though. First things first: she had to recapture her charge.

Dragon spread her wings, lifted off from her perch on the tower, and glided downward, circling the tower and alighting in front of the main entrance. She dropped to all fours and strode into the main corridor, the slit pupils in her luminous eyes dilating to take in more of the crimson and orange light cast through the cracks in the masonry as she scanned the area for any trace of the princess. Then she sniffed, and her heightened olfactory sense confirmed the pungent odor of a nearby ogre.

Suddenly Dragon caught a glimpse of something flying through the air, launched from a hidden location somewhere toward her front. It flew well clear of her head, and Dragon instinctively followed its flight path as it hurtled well past her and smashed against a wall beyond. It was another large rock. Dragon grinned slightly. The ogress's aim had grown much poorer. In fact, it was almost as if she were _trying_ to miss…as if the rock were simply a—

With sudden realization Dragon spun forward again just in time to see the ogress – who had donned a baldric with sword, armor shoulder pads, and wrist and knee shields scavenged from remnants of her would-be rescuers – rush forward and hurl a spear toward where dragon had exposed part of her upper torso when she had turned her head to follow the flight of the rock.

* * *

Excitement coursed through Fiona when she saw her plan coming together. When Fiona had thrown the rock the dragon turned her head and neck to follow its flight path, exposing part of her upper torso just as Fiona hoped she would. Although the beast had turned back around much too soon and too quickly for the princess's comfort, Fiona was already in the midst of her next delivery. Although the spear's flight was more wobbly than if thrown by an expert javelineer, it had power behind it, and it flew true enough. Fiona began to feel a little thrill as she realized that there was no way the dragon could move her massive form out of the way in time.

Unfortunately, just before the spear struck home, the dragon – showing remarkable reflexes and dexterity – lifted one of her hand-like talons and snatched the spear right out of the air, halting the point only a foot or so from her skin. Fiona stood there, mouth agape, staring. The dragon also froze for a moment, looking down at what Fiona realized must be the ridiculous sight of an ogre wearing a princess dress accessorized by battered knightly apparel. Then the dragon smiled, used the spear to pick between her teeth for a moment, then held out the spear and casually snapped its shaft between her fingers. After seeing the defeated princess's shoulders slump sufficiently, the dragon tossed the remains of the spear back over her own shoulder, and then reached forward toward Fiona.

As the dragon's talon was about to close upon her, Fiona snapped out of her malaise and reacted, drawing the sword and thrusting it hard into the relatively soft flesh of the tip of one of dragon's huge fingers. The dragon howled in pain and surprise, and drew her talon back. As she did so, Fiona whirled and scampered away, re-sheathing her sword as she went.

* * *

Dragon looked down at the blood pooling in a small (for her) drop on her injured finger, then reared her head back and roared again, again furious both at the irritating ogress and at her own carelessness. She _had_ to stop underestimating the little…beast. She looked down again in time to see the fat little freak making her way up the stairs toward the kitchen. Dragon leaned forward on her haunches and roared as she unconsciously swung her tail in a long arc behind her, unintentionally smashing a column and sending a small cascade of stone falling behind her as a balustrade that it had been supporting collapsed. The incident was mostly lost on Dragon as she stared hard at Fiona, but the ogress paused in her flight up the steps to stare back, and then after a few moments of what seemed consideration she turned and took the last couple of steps upward and began running across the cluttered floor. Dragon sprang forward after her.

* * *

Fiona ran as quickly as she could toward Dragon's kitchen, cursing the excess bodyweight that slowed her down and was already causing her to gasp for breath. "I'm…not…used…to…aerobics" she muttered to herself, then stopped the muttering as she realize that she was going to need that breath for her backup plan. It was at first just an idea to slow the dragon's pursuit if the lance attack failed, which it miserably had. But now, having seen the balustrade fall, her racing mind had quickly concocted another – if desperate – plan of attack.

The princess heard the dragon roar again – terrifyingly closer this time – as Fiona reached the kitchen area. Fiona skidded to a halt – nearly stumbling – right beside the barrels of salt and pepper. She grabbed the lip of the salt barrel with one hand and the lip of the pepper barrel with the other, then paused for a few seconds and looked back as she tried to calm herself and catch her panting breath – not an easy task to do as she saw the dragon only couple of hundred feet away now and striding toward her, narrowed yellow eyes glowing in intensity and face twisted in anger. Fiona took a deep breath, and then concentrated all her strength on tipping the barrels toward herself. She groaned with the effort. For a few horrible moments she thought the weight of the barrels would be too great for her as they teetered near but not quite past the tipping point, but with one last strenuous effort – aided by a scream – Fiona managed to pull them past the tipping point. She had to skitter back out of the way as their contents spilled onto the kitchen floor. Now two piles of spices lay between Fiona and the still charging dragon, now less than a hundred feet away. Fiona stared at the monster for a moment longer, fighting down her fear, caught her breath, and inhaled deeply, filling her lungs to their utmost capacity. Fiona tried to recall that night in her room where she had unintentionally let loose with that horrible, embarrassing ogre roar. Now she shoved those thoughts of embarrassment aside. She was not a prim princess at this point; she was a warrior fighting for her life and the lives of future rescuers against a powerful, primal force and she needed all the resources at her disposal, including those she could pull from within the depths of her ogrid self. She thought back again of the many, many years of wasted life, of dashed hopes, of the sounds of the lives her would-be heroes being crushed by the monstrosity bearing down upon her, now just a few yards away. Fear and anger both boiled within her, fighting for supremacy.

Anger won.

Fiona roared.

It was a loud, long roar, full of frustration and fury, and all the other emotions Fiona was feeling, all rolled into one great long bellow. The great rush of air emanating from the ogress swept with it much of the pile of salt and pepper between her and the reptile and then smashed against the dragon's face like a tidal wave against a cliff, sending salt and pepper filtering into her nostrils and glowing yellow eyes.

The dragon came to her own screeching halt – too late shutting her eyes. As Fiona ran out of breath and her roar ceased, the dragon – eyes still shut – reared back and let loose a roar of her own. But hers, even louder than Fiona's, was purposeless fury, and was cut short – almost humorously – with a sneeze, albeit one that spurted out a flame that set fire to an old, molding tapestry. As the dragon reached up to rub her closed, swelling eyes, Fiona looked up at the remnants of the castle about her, and the supports that were still holding keys parts of it up. Then Fiona dashed over to stand beside one of those 4-foot wide stone columns, a few yards away from and parallel to the dragon's right haunch. "Hey, you!" she called teasingly. "Wow, I thought _my_ backside was big. But man, even for a dragon, _yours_ is _enormous!_"

* * *

Dragon was enraged. She had had enough of the arrogant green creature. She had been debating earlier whether to continue to honor the Godmother's deal, or no. Now her rage tipped the balance: _No__deal_. She turned her head toward the sound of the voice and roared. Still unable to see, Dragon swung her tail blindly in the direction of that voice. It impacted one of the stone columns, smashing it to bits. Dragon roared again, which made her oblivious to a brief groan from the building's structure above her. She then gained enough control of her temper to pause and listen to determine whether her aim was successful or the urchin was still breathing. For a moment there was nothing. But then she heard the shrill voice again, this time from an entirely new position several yards away and to Dragon's rear. "Ha! Missed me! Your aim's as bad as your breath. By the way, do you floss with cow intestines or something? Because _your_ breath _stinks!_"

Dragon growled as she turned toward the voice. She decided to give Fiona a full taste of that breath. Dragon took a moment to fill her lungs with air, then let loose with a full blast of flame. It spewed forth and surged like a wave across the stone castle floor, igniting tapestries, melting armor, and – unbeknownst to Dragon – turning two thick wooden support columns into charcoal. Then, her breath and some of her rage spent, Dragon took a few seconds to reach up and rub at her watering eyes as she listened for other sounds from the obtrusive ogress, although she was pretty sure this time that she'd heard the last of her.

She was nearly right.

* * *

Fiona rolled away from the smoking, sheltering pile of debris behind which she'd dove and covered the rest of her body as best she could with a shield in anticipation of the flame. The shield, itself smoking and quite hot, she tossed aside. Underneath the now-scorched sleeve of her dress, the arm which had held it was blistered. Had she still been in human form and not protected by the tougher hide of an ogre, it would have been badly burned.

The Dragon tensed at the sound of the shield clattering on the floor, dropped to all four talons and tried staring in the princess's direction, but the beast could only squint uncomfortably as her eyes continued watering badly. Fiona took a few strides from the debris pile and then halted in a wide-legged, defiant stance. Other parts of her green felt dress were now torn or singed. Her face was scratched and darkened with soot. In all the activity her the parts of her hair not tied off in her ponytail had become unkempt, with some forming awkward uneven bangs that hung, dripping sweat, over her forehead. Her tiara had somehow maintained its position in that hair, although it now rested askew, almost accentuating the parody of the one-time prim princess it adorned, for the being upon which it now rested looked like anything but that. With long ears pricked forward attentively, mouth open with lower jaw thrust forward and lips curled back in a snarl that revealed inhumanly large teeth, Fiona stared at the scene before her. The two wooden support columns had been reduced to black splintery remnants, as she had planned. The second floor was now noticeably sagging downward – well, noticeably to Fiona, but fortunately not to the dragon, under which it sagged. There was just one more stone support column a few yards in front of and to the right of the reptile.

"Missed again, jailer," Fiona called. "You rely a bit heavily on that flame of yours, don't you? Are you too lazy to fight hand-to-hand? Or just too cowardly?"

The dragon growled, still trying to focus through squinting, watering eyes. Fiona hoped to end this before that vision completely returned. The princess drew her sword. "Lay on, lizard," she said.

The dragon roared, and then began charging forward. As she did, Fiona sidestepped to her left, keeping herself facing the dragon in a fighting stance, calling out, "C'mon!" with each step, hoping to make it appear like she was naturally repositioning herself for the fight and not raise any suspicions.

Fortunately, it worked. The dragon shifted the direction of her charge in order to keep bearing down on its prey. The half-blind beast didn't seem to notice the support column until her right shoulder struck it in full force, smashing it into sections. A moment later, as Fiona had hoped, the ceiling above the dragon began to collapse. Fiona turned and leaped into an alcove as behind her the roar of tons of stone and wood raining down upon her adversary sounded, and the rest of the castle trembled with the impact. Moments later the air was filled with great clouds of dust, blinding the princess as surely as the dragon had been blinded. It filled Fiona's lungs, triggering a coughing fit.

After what seemed like interminable minutes Fiona regained control of her breathing and could finally begin to see the results of her effort. The section of the ceiling above the dragon had indeed collapsed. Most of the beast was covered in tons of the resulting rubble. Only the head, its red scales now covered with gray dust, poked out. The dragon was unconscious again, but breathing. With all that weight on her, Fiona assumed the reptile was trapped. "But one can't be too careful with dragons," she said, and carefully climbed the debris pile and onto the dragon's neck and then on until she was standing atop her head. Then Fiona took her sword, picked a spot between scales above where she assumed the brain would be, and then raised the sword, concentrating on the spot as she grasped the hilt with both hands and prepared to plunge the blade downward.

Then she hesitated.

She took a moment to recompose herself, and then readied the sword again. Holding her breath, she took aim at the spot, bit her lip in determination, and then…

She couldn't do it.

"Blast!" Fiona said, chiding herself for her weakness and re-sheathing the sword. "So much for being a dragonslayer," she said as she stripped off the armored padding from her shoulders, wrists and knees and tossed them into the rubble. She just hoped now that the dragon really _couldn__'__t_ escape. Once she returned to Far Far Away, she'd explain the situation to her father and then he could send some men back to capture the beast or…well, do what needed to be done. Yes, she thought, Dad will know best about how to handle such monsters.

She had just finished climbing down from the debris pile when she heard a noise from the doorway closest to the castle's entrance. She had drawn her sword again and taken a fighting stance before she even realized what she was doing. But then, illuminated by both the hellish red glow of the lava and the flickering golden light cast by the fires started by the dragon, she made out the figure of a knight in shining armor.

Fiona froze, gaping. "Who…who…" she began.

The figure stepped forward and Fiona could see a cape of fine scarlet fabric trailing behind him. Then he reached up, pulled off his helmet, removed a hairnet (a _hairnet_?), and then shook out full, thick flowing golden locks. He halted a few feet before her. He was gorgeous. A face…like an angel, she thought. He smiled tentatively and said, "Princess…Fiona?"

"I am," Fiona said, dropping the sword without thinking about it, and proved oblivious to the clatter as it hit the stone floor, so mesmerized was she by his gorgeous blue eyes and handsome features. This was it! This was what she had been waiting oh, so long for. Then her mind started to kick back in with how she had fantasized this meeting would go. She cleared her throat and then added, "Awaiting a knight so bold as to rescue me!"

The knight glanced over at the trapped, unconscious dragon, cocked an eyebrow, and looked back at Fiona. "It would seem that my opportunity to claim the title of 'rescuer' has recently flown. Or, rather, been buried."

"Oh, no! Not at all!" she protested, suddenly ashamed of her accomplishment. "I just—" she gestured toward the fallen dragon, and was suddenly aware again of the green mitt of a hand sticking out of her sleeve. "No!" she gasped in terror, and then covered her blushing face with her hands. "I'm sorry! I never meant for anyone to see me…like this."

"It's all right," the knight said comfortingly as Fiona heard him stepping toward her.

"I really _am_ Princess Fiona," she whimpered, suddenly afraid. "I know this is not how a princess is meant to look, but—"

"Don't worry, my dear," he said as he halted before her. "I am quite aware of your plight, and I am here to put an end to your dreaded curse."

"You are?" Fiona said meekly, lowering her hands and looking again into his beautiful eyes, so close now. With her ogress height, she was as tall as he was, if not a bit taller.

"Indeed," he cooed reassuringly.

He didn't even seem repulsed by her appearance. Relieved, Fiona remembered another of the lines from her oft-dreamt fantasy. "Then…might I know the name of my champion?"

"I am…Prince Charming," he replied.

She blinked. "Y-yes, you are," she said, meekly. "But really…what is your name?"

"That _is_ my name," he replied with a tinge of irritation. "Prince Charming."

"Seriously?"

"Yes, seriously" he said, a bit more annoyed as his smile started to falter.

"I'm sorry!" she said. "It's just that you are…" then she began to lose herself into those blue eyes again. "So very aptly named."

His full smile returned as her compliment seemed to stroke his ego. "Thank you, my dear," he said.

She stared at his mesmerizing visage as he began to draw closer, then…

"Oh! Wait!" Fiona nearly shrieked, startling Charming and causing him to recoil a step. "There's something more I must do!"

Charming regained his composure. "No, my dear," he said. "There's really—"

"It will just take a moment!" she insisted, then cleared her throat and reached within the front of her sleeve as she had rehearsed countless times before. "I pray that you take this fa—" she began, but then realized the handkerchief was no longer there. Confused, she at first thought she must have stuffed it up the other sleeve. She started reaching within that with her other hand, and began again. "I pray that you—" But it wasn't there either. "Oh, no!" she wailed, now remembering that she had noticed it missing on her way down from her room. "It's gone! The favor I was to give you upon our meeting! It's not here!"

"Oh, is _that_ all?" he said, and then added soothingly, "Don't worry, Fiona. I need no favors from you."

"But this isn't right!" she protested. "I _must_ give you _something_." Then her eyes alit upon the sword that she had dropped. "Ah-ha!" she said, an idea springing to mind. She reached down and seized the hilt.

"Fiona," Charming began, suddenly concerned, "what are you—"

Fiona reached behind her with one hand, grabbed the end of her ponytail, and then pulled it tautly up and to one side and with the other hand frantically sawed at the hair with the sword, ignoring the pain as she pulled the hair a bit tauter than it needed to be. After a few moments of working with nervous energy she had successfully cut through it. She then looked at Charming, smiled tentatively, then curtseyed slightly as she held the foot-long shorn section of her ponytail, still bound with a hair ribbon, toward him with one slightly trembling hand as she continued grasping the sword with the other. "My Prince," she said in a formal voice which she fought to keep calm, "I pray that you accept this lock of hair as a token of my gratitude."

Charming stared at her for a moment longer, his face expression uncertain. Then his suave, confident demeanor returned. "Why, thank you, my dear," he said, striding forward again. He halted just before her and bowed his head as he took the proffered lock. She felt a tingle go up and down her spine as their fingers brushed. The touch of a human hand…the first time she had felt that in…goodness, how long? Then he surprised her by reaching over and carefully taking the hand that held the sword. "If you don't mind," he said.

"Oh! Not at all!" she said, having quite forgotten within that scant few seconds that she even continued to hold it.

"Thank you," he said, then his smile slackened as he looked over at and gently pried the weapon from fingers twice the width of his own. Fiona noted just a touch of odd nervousness leaking through his demeanor while her fingers still curled about the hilt, as well as subtle hint of relief once he had control of it himself. He tossed the sword aside, and it landed amidst some debris that burned with one of the several small fires ignited by the dragon's breath. He then looked back into her eyes and his full smile returned. "You needn't worry about having to use such ghastly things again, my dear." He said. "_I__'__ll_ take care of you."

"Yes, yes that will be wonderful!" Fiona said. "I cannot tell you how long I've waited for you to arrive and end my terrible imprisonment in this keep!"

"Indeed," he said, then reached over and stroked her cheek. Fiona gasped as chills ran through her entire frame. "Now, my princess," he cooed, "just relax, close your eyes, and let me put an end your curse."

"Oh, my love," Fiona sighed. She closed her eyes and waited. She heard and felt him drawing nearer. This was it! This was what she had been waiting what seemed her whole life for. All those years of long, miserable days and even worse nights of waiting were finally about to be rewarded! What a fool she was to try to escape. She came so close to missing him. The fairytale had been right all along, and she had nearly thrown it all away, stupidly thinking she could take care of her problems herself. That was not her role in this; her destiny was to await this moment. This rescue. This rescuer. This kiss. It was that blasted ogress inside her, she suddenly realized. So close to being extinguished at last, it had talked her into trying this idiotic escape attempt. That sly, demonic creature. Well, she wouldn't need to worry about it much longer. Her prince was about to take care of that. Now she felt him touching her…his left hand gently coming to rest on her right shoulder…his torso starting to touch hers. She could smell his breath…breath that smelled of peppermint, as if scented. It would not be long now. Fiona's own breathing came more rapid and ragged. She felt her heart pounding within her chest. She felt herself becoming lightheaded. Her lips puckered in anticipation, and then—

She felt sudden, enormous pain in her left side.

Fiona's eyes sprang open, and she found herself staring into Charming's face. It still bore a smug smile, but now she thought she detected some malevolence around the corners of his lips and eyes. "Sorry, my dear," he said. "King's orders."

Fiona looked down at her left side…and saw a dagger buried nearly half its length into her dress. The hilt of the dagger was held by her rescuer, and as she stared down in shock she saw the fabric of the dress where the weapon had been pierced turn dark with her blood. Some even began to run down the shiny metal blade. After a moment of her staring at the sight in uncomprehending horror he tried thrusting the blade in deeper; it didn't go very far, but it hurt terribly. But it didn't hurt as much as his words.

'King's orders'?

So _her __father_ had ordered this?

Fiona's looked back into Charming's face. Now his smile was gone, replaced by a blank, unfeeling mask. Fiona stared dumbly at him for a moment, and then a single tear formed in the corner of one of her eyes and ran down her cheek, leaving a distinct trail in the dust and soot that had clung there. The prince frowned with an expression of mixed pity and disgust. "You poor, pathetic creature," he said, withdrawing the blade so quickly from her body that Fiona gasped. He then plunged it forward again.

But just before the blade struck home, Fiona caught his wrist with her left hand.

Charming looked down and tried jerking his hand away. But Fiona maintained her grip.

"Let me go!" he demanded. But Fiona not only maintained her grip, she tightened it.

"Stop it!" he commanded, but his voice was less certain and a trace of fright crept in. "You're hurting me!"

Fiona squeezed tighter.

Charming screamed. His hand opened, and the blood-soaked dagger clattered to the floor.

His head jerked to where he was staring at her face again. His expression was now one of fear and panic, both of which increased as he saw that her own expression had grown cold and stony.

"F-Fiona, please," he stammered. "Let me ex—"

His pleading was interrupted as Fiona let out a loud, "_Hiiii-yah!_" and threw her head forward, impacting his head just the way she aimed. She released his wrist as he crumpled unconscious to the floor.

Fiona stared down blankly at her 'rescuer' for a few moments as she rested her left hand against the aching wound in her side. Then the words came back again. _Sorry, __my __dear. __King__'__s __orders_.

The last knight's words then came back as well, the ones that she had tried to dismiss, but which still left an unwelcome echo whispering through the dark back corridors of her mind. _Why __did __your __parents __hate __you?_

"But they _don__'__t_ hate me!" she said aloud. "They don't…"

That's when the tears came.

Fiona reached up, covered her face with her hands, and sobbed. Memories of those looks of embarrassment and shame from her father, which she had fought to bury, arose like some horrid half-decomposed corpse clawing out of its unhallowed grave. She remembered the stick-figure like drawing she had done in her diary as a child, its caption, '_Sleeping __Beauty __is __having __a __slumber __party __tomorrow, __but __Dad __says __I __can't __go. __He __NEVER __lets __me __out __after __sunset_', and the stern expression on her father's face that even her child's hand had captured so well. And was this…this _banishment_ to this castle of horrors truly for her own good? Or was it a means to get her out of the way, to hide the source of his…disgrace? But then why the assassination attempt _now?_ Had she simply lived too long? Had enough years passed that interest in her and her legend had died away except for a few unfortunate knights sent by that Farquaad? But that didn't make sense. The knights before that – they were there to rescue her, not kill her. Weren't they? Or _were_ they? A number of scenarios suggested themselves to her tortured mind, but now that her mental barriers had been breached, repressed resentment came flooding forth, poisoning her perspective, and each of her imagined scenarios in the end involved her father, the king, as a villain. _Sorry, __my __dear. __King__'__s __orders_.

Fiona, still sobbing with her hands covering her face, turned and took a few paces away from where Charming lay along with the shredded remnants of her dreams and hopes and fantasies. Several seconds later, when she uncovered her face and blinked away enough tears so that she could see clearly again, she found herself staring into a grime-streaked mirror. Not comprehending what it was at first – just that she was beholding the nearby face of a monster with one side of that face smeared with blood – she screamed. Then she realized that she was seeing her own terrible image for the first time in oh-so long, and that the blood was her own from the hand she had used to grasp her wound. As she stared at herself, the words that she had thought earlier after sparing the dragon returned to her mind, now mocking her: _Dad __will __know __best __about __how __to __handle __such __monsters_. Her lips curled back in a snarl, and she threw her right fist forward, shattering the glass. Some of the small splinters of glass buried themselves into the tops of her fingers and knuckles, and droplets of blood began oozing out around the splinters. Fiona didn't care. She leaned her palms against the rough stone wall, lowered her head, closed her eyes, and tried choking back the sobs caused by the deeper pain that gnawed at her soul.

Suddenly Fiona began to feel light-headed. She opened her eyes and gasped as she noticed a nearly foot-wide pool of blood by her feet. A moment's examination revealed that it was forming from a steady drip from the hem of her dress. She looked back at her left side, which was now starting to throb, and saw that the section of her dress from the wound site downward was soaked dark with blood. She reached down and tore at the hole in the fabric that was left by the dagger, making it larger, and she saw a three-inch long slit in her thick green flesh that was still bleeding freely. The sight made her ill at a visceral level. She had to stop the bleeding. But how? Would direct pressure be enough? She tried pressing her hand against it again, but after a few seconds blood started seeping out from under her hand and between her fingers. Unthinkingly, Fiona cursed. Should she attempt going back to her room and try to sew the wound up? That thought alone made her even queasier, but then she realized she may not be able to climb all those stairs now anyway before she passed out.

She glanced about the room to see what was at hand, and her eyes came to rest on the sword that Charming had cast aside into a pile of flaming debris. The top half of its blade was resting in the flames, but its lower half and the hilt were outside of the fire. Fiona gulped. She remembered reading about cauterization of wounds where necessary, but just picturing it her mind, even then, made her squeamish. Still, if was the only way…

As Fiona stared at the sword her vision started to blur, and she just managed to stop herself from swooning. Well, what had to happen had to happen. She strode over to the debris pile and carefully picked the sword up by its hilt; it was hot, but bearable. She stared at the blade's red-hot tip for a moment. Fortunately, it appeared clean; she was apparently lucky. Lucky? She chuckled wryly at the thought. Then she signed resignedly, cautiously switched the hilt to her left hand, picked up a short piece of charred wood with her right hand to help her better guide the blade near the wound site without burning that hand, carefully positioned the sword so that its point was near the wound, took a deep breath, and then poked the tip of the blade into the wound.

Fiona's painful roar resounded throughout the castle, and would have been audible to anyone for miles around if anyone were there to hear it.

Once she was convinced that the wound was sufficiently sealed, Fiona dropped the sword and sank to her knees…and tried to ignore the smell of her own burnt flesh. She bowed her head as yet more tears, this time of physical pain, poured from her eyes. After a while she looked back up at the still unconscious bodies of her former jailer and her rescuer-turned-assassin, and wondered just what she was supposed to do now.


	13. Fare Thee Well, Castle

**Layer 13: Fare Thee Well, Castle**

A ray of light from the rising sun shined through a window and bathed Prince Charming's face – still handsome save for a knot and bruise on his head – awakening him. Squinting his eyes from the sunlight which only intensified the throbbing within his cranium, he groaned and pushed himself upward until he was on his hands and knees. Even his jaw and _hair_ hurt.

A great rumbling sound from beside him caused him to swing his head to the side and tense, especially when he saw himself staring at the side of the head of the pinned dragon which still lay several yards away, but then he realized that her eyes were still closed and the sound was of her snoring as she slept.

Then when Charming turned his head forward again he saw his helmet sitting a few feet in front of him. Pinned within its visor was a parchment bearing some sort of writing. As his head cleared and he recalled his last few moments of consciousness, a sense of dread overtook him as he stared at the note. He hesitated a moment longer, then rose to his feet, took the couple of steps to the helmet, and then reached down and plucked the parchment from the visor. He unfurled it, stepped into the sunlight, and read the elegant cursive script:

_Kind Sir:_

_I wish to beg thy forgiveness. Upon reflection, I understand that thou wast only seeking to fulfill the wishes of thy king. Although I understand not the reasons, as a subject of the realm I yield to the decree of one with responsibilities and rights greater than mine. But in good conscience, I cannot allow thou to endanger thy mortal soul through the execution of thy dark commission. Thusly, I am returning to my tower room, from whence I shall hurl myself into the boiling moat below, praying that God shall take pity on my obedience to the will of one who rules by His Divine right and shall allow the few moments of fiery agony in this world to suffice and spare me such torment in the world beyond._

_Fare thee well, my Prince._

The note was signed 'Fiona' with a little heart dotting the 'i', a touch which seemed incongruous since the note itself was written in blood.

"Blast!" Charming spat. The vile Rumpelstiltskin had demanded that he return with Fiona's head as proof that he had completed his assignment. Charming had recoiled at the crudity, indignity, and…messiness of the task. Yet if he failed, his mother was as good as dead herself. But if Fiona dived into that lava…

Perhaps it wasn't too late. Perhaps the princess was hesitating. It was only human nature. And with the sunrise, Fiona was human again. "Fiona, if you can hear me, wait!" he shouted, his voice echoing through the castle. "You needn't do this! You needn't die! I…have another idea! Please wait for me!"

The dragon stirred slightly at the annoying sound, then fell back asleep. Charming scanned the floor for a moment, saw his dagger – covered in sticky drying blood – then seized it and bounded toward the tower. "Fiona, please wait!" he cried again.

Charming had just started rushing across the short stone bridge spanning the inlet that led to Fiona's tower when he heard, from high above, a scream. He looked up to see a green-clad figure falling from the tower. "Oh, no," he said in helpless frustration as he watched the figure plummet downward and eventually plop with a dull thud into the midst of the lava many yards away. The green felt dress immediately burst into flame, and a few moments later whatever was left was sucked into the bubbling molten brew.

Charming walked to the last standing remains of the stone railing that had once spanned the side of the bridge, looked at the spot where the figure had disappeared, and then pounded the fist that held the dagger on the railing. "Blast!" he said. "Selfish wench!"

Charming tried to think. Obviously Fiona's body could not be recovered. So what to do when he returned to Far Far Away and confronted Rumpelstiltskin? He could tell the truth…an option he found immediately revolting, given what had happened when he tried to dispatch her. But as he continued pondering his options his eyes drifted to the dagger – whose blade still bore her blood. And he still had the lock of her red hair. With their otherworldly powers, perhaps the imp or his witches could tell that the blood and hair were indeed hers. If so, then perhaps Charming could tell…a _version_ of the truth, using those items to back him up. At any rate, he would have to try. Fiona had left no reasonable – or at least palatable – alternatives.

He stared into the boiling inlet again. "May your soul also be burning now for all the trouble you're putting me through," he said, sneering. Then he turned and strode back into the castle.

As Charming disappeared into the keep, the beautiful human face of Princess Fiona, who had been carefully peeking down at his small faraway figure from her bedroom window, broke into a sad sardonic smile.

* * *

Shortly after sealing her wound, as she looked down upon Charming's prostrate form, Fiona had realized she was in a quandary. The king wanted her dead. Although she had incapacitated his agent, the price was surely still on her head, and once the prince awoke, he would doubtlessly seek to fulfill his bloody mission. But what could she do to prevent that? Try to talk him out of it? The scoundrel had already proved conniving and deceitful; even if he gave his word not to harm her, how could she trust him? Rhetorical question, that, she realized; obviously she couldn't. Perhaps she could tie him up, but that would be forestalling the inevitable; he'd eventually free himself or someone else would arrive and free him, and then he or they would doubtlessly pursue her. She supposed she could…kill him. Despite what he had done to her, her stomach twisted at the thought. If she couldn't bring herself to kill a dragon in cold blood, how could she do so to a fellow human being? Well, to a human being, she through wryly, remembering her current form. But even if she did the gruesome act, someone else was likely to simply take his place in hunting her down until the king's vile wish was fulfilled. No, she realized in despair, the only way that she would be free was when she was dead.

Or if the king _thought_ she was dead.

Fiona wasn't sure where that stray thought had come from – perhaps from one of her stories, or perhaps her instinct for self-preservation was driving her thinking process to venture into more devious territory – but once she had the thought she clung to it, and began to develop it. Several minutes of pondering and scheming later, she had concocted a plan: a plan whose most delicious aspect was that Charming, the intended vehicle of her destruction, would serve as her savior after all, after a fashion.

She set about her preparations. First, she needed to write the note for Charming to find. She knew she had quill and parchment back in her room, but she didn't want to have to make that long walk back to her tower more than once, what with the pain that gnawed at her side with each step. So she searched about the lower floor of the castle for writing tools, and eventually found a writing nook that contained parchments and quills. Unfortunately, she found to her frustration that the ink well had dried up. Then an idea struck her – morbid, but somehow appropriate, considering her situation. It would make for a literally grim touch to her own revised fairytale; but then, she had read a number of dark fairytales, such as 'The Seven Ravens', where a young girl had to chop off one of her fingers to use as a key, or 'The Juniper Tree', where an evil stepmother decapitated her stepson and then cooked him into a stew. Fiona sneered. Even tales such as these were somehow twisted into happy endings. She simply couldn't imagine how her own predicament could possibly end 'happily'. Right now, a 'happy' ending would simply mean she survived. My, she thought cynically, how her expectations had lowered. Still, she had to play the cards dealt her. She took a quill and parchment, returned to spot where she had earlier noticed her blood forming a pool, dipped the quill in, and began penning her sanguinary note, making sure to include the proper flourishes expected of a naïve, innocent, obedient princess. Once she had finished, she read it over, her mouth again distorting into an involuntary sneer. The sappy cadences certainly sounded like the meek, starry-eyed maiden that she had imagined herself to be, so _wanted_ to be, so recently before, right down to dotting the 'i' in her signature with a little heart.

Fiona retrieved Charming's helmet and laid it near his head, carefully pinning the drying parchment in its visor so he would see it upon wakening. As she checked her handiwork, she heard a moan, and saw Charming starting to stir. That simply wouldn't do; she wasn't nearly ready. With coldness that she wouldn't have imagined herself capable of a few hours before, Fiona reached down and lifted Charming's head up by his hair with her left hand. "Not yet, Sleeping Beauty," she muttered, and pelted him with a right cross, sending him back into deeper unconsciousness. She then casually let go of his hair and let his head plop back down onto the floor.

Fiona then found a satchel and waterskin and headed back to her tower room – the room that she thought she would never see again. The wound in her side protested each step up each stair, at first dully, but by the time she entered her room she had to stop for a while, leaning against the doorframe to wait for the pain to recede. Eventually it did – only to be replaced by a new, brief, all-encompassing pain as dawn broke and her body was again rearranged into its smaller human form. Fiona looked down to see that her dress, as usual, had shrunken with her frame – but one side was still bloody, and she still had a cauterized wound. She had half-hoped the transformation would eliminate that, but found that was yet another forlorn hope. At least the pain from the wound had decreased to where she could move about again.

Fiona cast the satchel and waterskin aside and wandered over to her reading corner. There she picked up the doll. She looked into its artificial face and sadly smiled. Just yesterday she had been able to project her imagination into the doll, making it into her companion and sit-in offspring. Now, though, as she stared at it all she saw was cloth and yarn – and a tool to help realize her scheme.

"Sorry, Felicia," Fiona said. "It's time for you to grow up."

Fiona disassembled the doll, and then removed her own blood-stained dress, leaving herself in her undergarments. She used parts from the doll and the dress to construct a dummy of about her own human size. When she found she needed additional stuffing, her eyes fell on Mr. Fluffy. Sighing, Fiona said, "Sorry, but I need you too, kitty," and soon Mr. Fluffy had been integrated into the dummy's torso. She also added a few of the stones on the floor from where she had fallen through the ceiling so that when the dummy fell it would be less likely to be blown off its course from the lava-filled inlet by any unfortunate gusts, like that wayward slipper.

Fiona placed the dummy by the window, then turned back to look upon her room. Her eyes fell upon her bookcase. Silly children's stories and useless doggerel, she realized now. Seized suddenly by a dark whim, she walked over to the bookcase, picked up an armful, headed to her window – hesitated just a moment longer – and then tossed them out. They fell, some of the bindings and pages fluttering like birds trying to take flight. Some smashed amidst the courtyard below, the rest fell into the lava. The effort had caused renewed pain in Fiona's side, and a heavier pain in her heart. But she felt oddly compelled now, and returned to the bookshelf again and again until all the books had been tossed out the window – and her eyes were brimming with tears.

Fiona wiped her tears away and took watch at the window, keeping her eyes peeled now for Charming's form to appear at the far end of the stone bridge that joined her tower to the rest of the castle. She mentally kicked herself, realizing that she should have been doing this before instead of allowing her emotions to distract her into the book tossing. Fortunately, Charming was apparently still unconscious. That was _one_ bit of luck, anyway. Fiona wryly figured that she was due.

After a while, Fiona thought she heard his voice calling her name. She wasn't sure exactly what he said, it was so distant. She silently cursed her inferior human hearing. But then she saw his faraway figure appear on the bridge. She quickly sucked in a lungful of air and screamed as loudly as she could as she picked up the dummy beside her. Charming froze about half-way across the bridge, and Fiona threw the dummy out of the window with all the strength that she could muster so that it would fall far enough away from the tower so as to land in the lava. With the effort, Fiona's wound sent a searing pain through her side, and she turned and nearly collapsed against the wall, having to reach up and bite a finger, nearly drawing blood, to keep from releasing a real scream. She then reached down and felt her side. Fortunately, the bleeding had not resumed.

Fiona carefully made her way back to the window and peeked out, gasping while waiting for the pain to recede again – _hoping_ it would recede again. She watched Charming looking out where the dummy had disappeared. She silently prayed for him to take the bait, and not resume his trek into the tower. To her great relief, he eventually turned and strode back into the castle. A while after that, she saw him make his way back across the rope bridge, untie his horse, and ride away toward the northwest, in the direction of Far Far Away. Her kingdom. Her _former_ kingdom. At the latter thought, Fiona reached up and took off her tiara. She examined the jeweled headpiece for a while, turning it over in her hands. Then she shook her head sadly, smirked, and tossed the symbol of her royalty onto her bed.

She waited another hour. Her side felt better. Although not particularly hungry, Fiona forced herself to eat breakfast and drink. She would need the energy. She would like to have rested longer, but didn't feel comfortable staying. Charming might change his mind and return, or the dragon might free herself. She packed some of the elvin bread into the satchel, filled the waterskin, and then carefully made her way down the stairs and into the castle. The dragon was still asleep. Fiona wondered if it might have entered into some sort of hibernation, and if so, how long would it last? Months? Years, maybe? Decades? Who knew? She could only hope.

Fiona scrounged and scavenged until she had found a suit of chain mail as light as possible that was about her size, a loose-fitting white surcoat adorned with a red Saint George's cross to go over it, leggings, and a domed Norman helmet with a hanging nosepiece which helped obscure her feminine features. She undid the remains of her ponytail and then donned her new apparel along with another baldric and sword. Almost as an afterthought, she also added a knife which she strapped to her ankle. She even found a pair of metal sabatons that she fashioned so that they covered the tops of her slippers while allowing her to walk in them comfortably. She expected to be dong much walking. She also figured that there might be robbers and other possibly dangerous individuals that she could encounter on her journey, and it would be better if they thought she was a wandering knight or soldier than a lone, 'helpless' maiden.

Fiona then found her way to the dragon's treasure room. There she filled another satchel with as many gold coins as she could comfortably carry.

Thus prepared, Fiona walked out of the castle and made her way across the rickety rope bridge above the lake of lava. At the far end, she turned and took one long last look at her 'home' for the past many years. Then she turned away and began heading southeast, away from the land of her parents and toward…she knew not what. She had not planned to be an adventuress, but it seemed that role had now been thrust upon her, and she would have to make the best of it. Perhaps she could find a different man…a _good_ man…who could still break the curse. Fiona sneered. _Don__'__t__ stop__ believing,__ eh, __Princess?_ she thought. But why not? She had her freedom now, but was finding that in her case it was just another word for nothing left to lose. To top it all off, a light drizzle started. She barked a harsh laugh.

As Fiona began on her journey, an old song that she had heard many years before began playing in her mind, to new lyrics that came unbidden there:

_Listen, people, to a story_

_Began many years ago_

_Of a princess in a castle_

_Set above a volcano_

_She was trapped, locked in a tower_

_Beset by a beast of dread_

_Waiting years for a brave man who'd_

_Rescue her and then they'd wed_

_Go ahead and dream, Fiona_

_Go ahead and make a plan_

_Believe in the feats of heroes_

_Believe in the good of man_

_But there won't be anyone, Your Highness_

_To save you this day_

_Abandoned, bloody, and betrayed…_

_One cursed princess walks away_


	14. The Bad, the Worse, and the Pretty

**Layer 14: The Bad, the Worse, and the Pretty**

The door to the windowless room in the King's castle where Dama was being held in 'house arrest' was opened and two of Hoariman's armored security men stepped through. "The king will see you now," one of them announced coldly as both placed a hand on the hilt of their sheathed swords.

"Will he now?" the once and – if she had anything to say about it – future Fairy Godmother of Far Far Away said as she arose from an armchair and laid aside the copy of _Chicken __Soup __for __the __Deposed__ Megalomaniac__'__s__ Soul_ that she had been reading. The maneuver was slightly awkward due to the locked sheath that bound her wings together to rob her of flight. "I'm rather used to having royal invitations delivered with a bit more cordiality."

The men just stood there, showing no reaction whatsoever. Although Dama couldn't see their faces for their visors, Dama suspected those faces where as expressionless as the metal that hid them.

"Does this have something to do with my son?" she asked with more seriousness – trying to hide her concern.

The men said nothing for a moment, and then the one who didn't speak before said, "The king wishes to see you now."

"Very well," she sighed. "I didn't realize that Hoariman had recruited Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee. Let's get this over with."

The guards led her out the room and down a hallway. As she passed a window she glanced down and saw a long line of people, mostly paupers judging from the raggedy clothes they wore, waiting impatiently to be allowed into the castle. Dama shook her head. The first stages of Rumpelstiltskin's scheme seemed to be progressing quite nicely.

Eventually the guards led her into a high-ceilinged throne room. Several witches, dressed in their regular dark attire, stood leisurely around the king's throne, and upon the grand seat itself sat Rumpelstiltskin. He was wearing a royal purple velveteen robe with a furry white leopard-spotted collar. The robe was some three sizes too large for his diminutive frame and completely covered his torso. His feet, still sporting pointy-toed shoes but now of a higher quality, stuck out about two-thirds of the way down the robe, and he swung them freely as they failed to reach the floor by quite a bit. Instead of a crown, he wore that over-sized powdered wig again. His attention was on another of Dama's wands, which he seemed to be studying as he turned it about in his hands, a curious little smile on his lips.

"I told you that those only work for me," Dama said smugly.

Everyone's attention quickly shifted to Dama, whom the guards marched to within ten feet of the throne toward Rumpel's right, and then halted her. "The Fairy Godmother, as you commanded, Sire," one of the guards announced.

"Ah, welcome, my honored guest!" Rumpel said, smiling broadly, and pointed the wand at her. "Are you _sure_ I can't use this? I did disarm you, after all."

"Oh, please," Dama said, rolling her eyes. "Isomorphic control is one thing. That 'disarming' tripe is just silliness." Then a little smirk appeared on her face as she recalled the surprised, blackened face of Rumpel from when the last wand exploded. "Although I'd love to see you try."

Rumpel returned the smirk. "Oh, well, whatever," he said a moment later, waving the wand dismissively. "Anyway, that's not why I summoned you. Let's get this over with, shall we? I hear I have lots of customers – I mean, subjects – to attend to!"

"Yes, I saw," Dama said. "The first stage of your 'Rumpel Deal' plan to enslave the population and hoard all of the kingdom's wealth to yourself."

"Yes, good summary exposition!" he said.

"It won't work, you know," Dama said.

"How's that?"

"Once people realize that you tricked them, they won't sit by like docile animals," she explained. "They'll rise up against you. That's human nature, and you apparently underestimate it."

"Oh, hardly," Rumpel scoffed. "In my line of business, I've had to understand it quite well, particularly its less noble aspects, and how it can be manipulated. Not unlike yourself, I might add. Anyway, I've taken that into account, and that's why I've arranged for a different…shall we say, scapegoat to sacrifice to their frustration? And I have _you_ to thank for the inspiration!"

"What?" Dama said irritably. "What are you talking about?"

"Ogres!" Rumpel said. "Big, smelly, ugly ogres! Huge brutes that the citizens don't understand but, being different and outsiders, they fear and distrust at a visceral level. Heck, they're already the boogey-men of half the campfire stories around here. And it doesn't help them that many ogres seem to _enjoy_ scaring the fools that trespass on their land. Might I also speculate that it was this distaste for ogres that somehow inspired Fiona's nocturnal transmogrifications to begin with?"

Dama stared hard at Rumpel and said nothing for a long while. Then, ignoring Rumpel's question, she said, "Your idea's absurd. Exactly _how_ do you plan to do that? And if you think people are stupid enough to overlook your blatant grab for wealth and power and instead blame some fringe group for their economic problems—"

Rumpel again waved the wand dismissively. "It's been done before, it'll be done again. Hey, I've been living with a bunch of witches, we know all about unfair persecution. 'What, did the crops fail, or did the well run dry? Then it must be because of a witch! Fire the stakes!'"

The witches in the room all nodded and bitterly mumbled their agreement.

"Witch hunts, my dear Fairy Godmother, be they literal or figurative, are nothing new," Rumpel continued. "As to the 'how'? Well, you just need to know how to manipulate peoples' fears and prejudices in just the right way. That will be handled by me and my propa—, um, news outlet. But enough didacticism. You needn't worry your glittered little head about the details. I would think your more immediate concern would be for your son."

"My son?" Dama said, all other thoughts suddenly washed away. "Charming? Is he here?"

"Oh, yes," Rumpel said. "He arrived a short while ago. Unfortunately, he's headless."

A cold chill ran down Dama's back. "W-what?" she croaked.

"He was instructed to arrive with Princess Fiona's head, and he rode in without it," Rumpel explained.

Dama at first felt relief for her son, and then glared hotly at the imp as his lips curled in an evil little grin. Dama tried to calm herself, screwed up what dignity and composure she could, and said, "Where is he? I demand to see him!"

Rumpel chuckled. "Old habits die hard, don't they, my dear? However, since his presence is in my own interests as well…"

Rumpel snapped his fingers. A moment later a door at the opposite side of the room burst open and two other guards entered with Prince Charming between them. He was still in his armor but his helmet was gone and his blond hair was now mussed. The guards, each grasping an arm, led him roughly forward as Charming protested indignantly, "Unhand me, you blaggards!"

"Junior!" Dama cried, her relief overcoming her attempt to maintain her composure.

Charming at last noticed his mother. "Mummy!" he cried, and tried unsuccessfully to pull free of the guards' grasp and run to her. They halted a few feet in front of Rumpel's throne toward the imp's left, leaving Rumpel, Dama, and Charming in a triangle, with about twenty feet separating the mother from her son.

"Awwww, now isn't this a moving sight?" Rumpel said mockingly. Then he turned toward Charming and added, with growing bitterness in his voice as he leaned forward in this throne, "And it would all have ended so much more happily _if__ you__ had__ just__ done__ as__ you__ were __instructed!_"

Charming glared defiantly at Rumpel for a few seconds, then said, "I _refuse_ to be treated like this, you cur!" and again began struggling against the strong hands that held him.

Rumpel waved his hand, "All right, _Prince_, if you can stand there and face me as a _man_, I'll have them release you."

Charming stopped struggling, stared at Rumpel for a moment, and then stood straight and nodded. Rumpel in turn nodded to the guards, who unhanded Charming…but stood alertly to either side of him.

Rumpel regained his own composure, then leaned back in the throne and toyed with the wand as he said, "So, Prince, would you care to explain _why_ you failed your commission?"

"I did not _fail_," Charming spat back. "Fiona is _dead_. That I swear."

Rumpel, whose beady eyes had been studying Charming intensely even though his demeanor appeared relaxed, said, "Then why did you not return with her head as ordered?"

"Princess Fiona was of royal blood," Charming replied. "I could not desecrate her corpse to satisfy the morbid bloodlust of a lowly creature such as yourself. Her body burned in the lava, with dignity more in keeping with her position, and is beyond your grubby reach. I brought back her blood and her hair. That should be sufficient proof of my fulfillment of your bloody orders, and is more than you deserve, you rodent-faced little demon."

"How dare you!" the witch Baba said, and strode forward with her hand raised to slap the prince.

"Baba, stop!" Rumpel ordered before the witch could strike. Baba turned, hand still raised, to face her master. "That is just _too_ cliché," he said.

Baba lowered her hand reluctantly and nodded obediently to Rumpel. She then turned back to Charming, sniffed in distaste, then turned again and retreated back to rejoin the other witches.

"Besides," Rumpel said, his eyes, which had been studying Charming carefully during the prince's explanation, narrowing, "he _seems_ to be telling the truth. Still, there's something not quite…well, we can test his evidence at least." The imp put down the wand momentarily and clapped his hands. "_Gristle!_" he shouted.

Suddenly the door through which Charming had been led opened again and a four-foot long cart came wheeling in, being pushed by a stout witch who, unlike her fellows, wore a wrinkled white lab coat with various stains on it. She wore no hat but instead some sort of pair of goggles was strapped across her scraggly gray-streaked black hair, the eyepieces sitting on her forehead.

She stopped the cart in front of Rumpel. The cart was covered by an old white tablecloth, which also bore a variety of stains and even some burn marks. Upon the tablecloth sat a variety of flasks and beakers that contained various colors of liquids and powders. In addition, a miniature black cauldron sat upon a small fire in the exact center of the cart.

"Fairy Godmother, Charming," Rumpel said, "This is Jill Gristle of the Crone Spells Inquest division. She will verify that the blood and hair that Charming supplied did indeed come from the supposedly deceased princess. Gristle, you may proceed."

"Yes, sir…_Sire_, sir," the witch said. Then she fumbled in one lab coat pocket and pulled out a small clump of red hair that was bound together with a small bow. "This was found in Princess Fiona's room, pressed in a scrapbook, and is reportedly a lock of her hair from when she was a small child." She laid that down on the table, reached into another pocket, and pulled out a section of a red ponytail. "This is the hair that the prince returned with. And this…" the witch reached into another pocket and carefully drew out a dagger covered in dried blood. "…is the instrument that the prince purportedly used to dispatch said princess. I will now verify all three came from the same individual."

The witch lowered the goggles so that the eyepieces were over her eyes, which made them appear comically huge, and then set to work quickly mixing the potions and powders with strands of plucked hair and scrapings from the dagger. As she worked the room was filled with some pounding techno-rhythm music that had everyone looking about and trying to identify its source. After a few minutes and a final poof of white smoke from the cauldron the music abruptly stopped and the witch raised her goggles, turned to Rumpel, and said, "Finished, Sire. I can positively verify that all of the hair and blood came from the same person, to a degree of ninety-nine point nine certitude, the point one allowing for possible fluctuations due to…"

"Thank you, Gristle, that will be all," Rumpel said.

"Oh. Uh, yes, sir. _Sire_. Thank you, Sire," she said, then wheeled her cart back out the same door through which she had entered. As she did so, Rumpel sat hunched on his throne, tapping the wand in the palm of one hand while staring contemplatively at Charming.

"Are you satisfied now, Stiltskin?" Dama demanded distastefully, feeling a surprising tinge of guilt over Fiona's fate. "You got what you wanted."

"And if that doesn't satisfy you," Charming said, "you may also have the dragon and its wealth."

Both Dama's and Rumpel's eyes widened, and each said simultaneously, "_What?_"

"The dragon has been fought and rendered helpless," the prince said. "It is lying pinned beneath a pile of rubble in its keep. You may now feel free to raid it of its treasure and do with the beast itself as you will."

"Junior, how could you?" Dama said. "You know you didn't need to do that, you just had to let it scent you and then…"

"I know, Mother, but it turned out all right," Charming said to Dama, then turned to Rumpel. "I thought offering it might sweeten the deal, and provide more inspiration for this villain to keep his part of the bargain."

"_You_ fought and defeated the dragon?" Rumpel asked, still sounding skeptical.

"Who else?" Charming said, defiantly thrusting out his chin.

"Indeed," Rumpel said, pursing his lips thoughtfully.

"Then I command you to release us, fiend!" Charming said.

"Not so fast!" Rumpel said, hopping off the throne. He strode over to Charming and, gesturing up at him with the wand, said, "You forget that _you_ are not the one in position to be giving commands here, young pr—"

With one lightning-fast move, Charming snatched the wand out of Rumpel's hand and tossed it to his mother, calling "Mummy!"

Dama caught the wand and with the same swift follow-through motion pointed its tip toward her back and then, with a flash, the sheath around her wings vanished. She quickly fluttered her wings and shot upward some twenty feet just before the guards could seize her arms. She turned in the air as all four guards drew their swords. Spinning in a 360 degree turn, she struck each sword with a blast from her wand, and each blade turned to rubber and wilted toward the floor. One of the witches tossed up a clattering metallic skull trap. Dama flicked her wand and the skull disappeared, the chain that had held it dropping uselessly to the floor. Another witch tossed another skull trap, and Dama easily repeated the maneuver. Then a broad wave of the wand and suddenly there was a full cooler of Gatorade above each witch's head.

"Careful, ladies," Dama warned. "Studies show that it's even more effective than water for dousing a witch. One false move and it will be on you."

With the witches now frozen in terror and staring fixedly up at the coolers, Dama turned to Rumpel. "And now, as for _you_..." she began, pointing her wand at him.

"No! Please! Don't! I'll do anything you say!" Rumpel begged, hands clenched before him, sudden fear in his voice and on his face.

Dama smiled at the little creature's discomfort. She and Charming shared a smirk of triumph as Rumpel cowered. "Now," Dama said to Rumpel, "since you've so crudely negated a proper line of succession, we'll have no choice but to claim the kingdom by the right of conquest."

"B-but what about our deal?" Rumpel whined. "If I accept that Charming has fulfilled his part of the bargain in dispatching Princess Fiona…and I hereby accept that he has…then I agree that you can have your boy back. It's in the contract!"

"That hardly matters now," Dama scoffed. "Besides, don't be silly. I never signed any of your contracts. I'm not that stupid."

"No," Rumpel agreed. Then he stopped cowering, straightened up, smiled, nodded toward Charming, and said, "But _he_ is."

Dama's jaw dropped, and she looked over at her son, who appeared suddenly chagrined. "Junior!" she gasped. "Please tell me you didn't—"

"I'm sorry, Mother," he said. "They told me they'd kill you if I didn't sign it. They told me—" A look of terror suddenly filled Charming's face. "Mummy!" he said. "Something's happening!"

As Dama watched in horror, Charming started to shrink. And as he shrank, he appeared to be getting younger. "Mummy!" he cried again, now in a small boy's voice. "_Mum-meeee!_"

"_No!_" Dama cried, and quickly flicked her wand at her son as she cast a negation spell. He was briefly encased in a flash of sparkly lights, but Dama's spell had no other effect as her son continued to shrink. Dama tried again, but it was equally futile.

"Tut-tut-tut," Rumpel said, waving an index finger. "Don't you know that it's bad manners to interfere with another magic user's spell? Besides, you _can__'__t_ counteract it; the contract is legally _and_ magically binding!"

Charming's diminishing frame sank out of sight within his collapsing armor.

A moment later, as a dumbstruck Dama watched, Rumpel reached down and carefully moved the armor out of the way. There, lying on his scarlet cape as if it were a blanket, was a little baby boy. He looked up at Dama and gurgled happily.

"There," Rumpel said, smiling evilly up at Dama. "As promised in the contract, you've got your boy back!"

Dama, mouth still agape, stared down at the baby for several seconds. Then her gaze shifted to the imp, who was still grinning triumphantly. "You…you little impudent monster!" she spat. "You deceitful scoundrel!"

"At your service," Rumpel said, taking a mock bow. "But look at the bright side; now you can experience all of the challenges and joys of raising a child all over again! Hey, how many mothers of sons like Charming _wouldn__'__t_ want a second chance? Honestly?"

Dama felt her rage build. The tip of her wand turned bright white and began crackling. Rumpel's triumphant demeanor began to crack. "Now…wait a minute, Fairy Godmother," he said, raising his hands toward her. "Okay, I can see you're upset. Maybe we can make another deal…I'll draw up a new contract and—"

"Stiltskin!" Dama wailed. "You've messed with the wrong Fairy Godmother!" She then threw her wand hand forward. A bolt of glistening white lightning leapt from the wand's star tip and arched toward Rumpel. As it did so, Rumpel's face once more assumed its triumphant expression as with both hands he pulled open his purple robe…to expose a shiny metal breastplate beneath. The bolt struck the breastplate, knocking Rumpel tumbling backward. But the bolt also rebounded off of the breastplate and sped back toward Dama. Dama had no time to do anything but gasp in surprise before the bolt hit her, sending her tumbling backward through the air for several feet. Dama, feeling a strange tingling across her body, briefly examined herself, but did not see any wounds. She looked back down to see Rumpel rising from the floor, wigless, steam rising from the scorched breastplate but otherwise unharmed. That obnoxious grin was still on his face. Dama's eyes narrowed as she aimed at that face, drew her wand hand back, and—

She exploded into a cloud of bubbles.

* * *

Dama's wand and glasses clattered to the floor as the coolers of Gatorade winked out of existence. A moment later a laughing Rumpel was joined by a cadre of his witches who helped pull the scorched breastplate off of him. "Well, a little soreness and a couple of bruises, but that was more than worth it," he said as one of the witches plopped his wig back atop his head. "Foreknowledge is a wonderfully useful thing! Or in this case, would that be hindsight? Oh, well. Wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey." As he brushed himself off the witches all applauded.

Off to the side the baby began crying. Rumpel looked down at him for a moment, and then called, "Baba!"

"G'aah!" Baba said, snapping to attention.

Rumpel gestured toward the child. "Take that to my uncle. You can probably find him at the Poisoned Apple. He always wanted a baby prince to raise. Tell him he can have that one, and give him my compliments. He gets so few of his own."

As Baba wrapped up the young prince in his cape-turned-blanket and carried him away, Rumple poked playfully at one of the many bubbles that were descending and popping harmlessly on the floor. "Sorry to burst your bubbles, Fairy Godmother," he said, and laughed at his own joke. Then his grin turned demoniacal as he said, "Now with the Godmother and Fiona gone, and Shrek destined to arrive as a hated fugitive who people would only think mad if he shared his story, and with no way for him to enact his escape clause, there's no one that can stop me!" He raised his arms, shook his little fists and shouted with glee up at the ceiling, "_No__ one!_" He laughed maniacally for a few moments, and as he calmed down he mused, "Ah, it's times like this that I wish I had a mustache to twirl!"


	15. You've Got a Friend

**Layer 15: You've Got a Friend**

"It's beautiful," Fiona mused, staring up in wonder at the blue sky with streaks of downy white clouds above her. "Goodness, I'd forgotten how beautiful it was!"

The rain that greeted her as she began her trek from the keep had lasted not quite an hour, enough to dampen her outfit, muddy her slippers, and make her feel even more miserable than she already did. But as the wasteland around the keep yielded to the greenery of meadow and then forest, the rain slackened and eventually gave way to thinning and whitening clouds, and then to sunshine. It was the first time Fiona had seen the sun high in the sky, unencumbered by the overlaying exhaust spewed from her volcanic residence, in years. During that time she had only been able to observe the great shiny orb when it descended beneath that smoky cover and was about to disappear below the horizon. Although many of the sunsets were indeed beautiful, when they were all that one saw of the sun, even they became monotonous.

Now Fiona basked in the sunshine warming her face and drying her clothes. Another thing, more pragmatic, that Fiona was grateful to be able to see the sun for was navigation. She had been able to determine the general direction of southeast as she moved away from the keep because she was aware of where west lay in relation to it from observing those many sunsets, and her former prison's massive conical outline stayed visible for quite some time. But as she entered deeper into the forest she lost sight of it, and only by determining where the sun was in the sky could she deduce where the southeast path lay. As she continued her forest trek the air became fresher with the fragrance of leaves and flowers, and the songs of birds greeted her ears. Their singing was so pleasant that she was nearly tempted to join in, but then she remembered the unfortunate incident with the eagle and refrained.

It would all have been so nice were it not for the nagging…and growing…pain in her side.

She took a break near noontime, when the sun was almost directly overhead, to eat and rest. In fact, since it would be a while before the sun began setting enough that she could tell the direction it was setting toward, she thought noontime would provide an excellent opportunity to take a good nap. She had not gotten any sleep during the previous night, what with its hectic and traumatic events, and she was nearing exhaustion. She hoped that taking a rest would also settle the wound in her side; she was beginning to fear what damage that pernicious prince's dagger had done to her internally. Yes, some sleep would be good right now. What was it that the Spanish called it? Ah, yes, a siesta. Yes, that was what she could use right now: a good Spanish catnap. She just hoped that her internal clock would awaken her before too much time had passed because she wanted to make more distance before nightfall, at which point she would need to find someplace to hide her nocturnal self.

_Why bother, Fiona?_ her inner voice asked. _Wouldn't you actually be safer? Any potential highwaymen would be less likely to attack an ogre rather than someone of your slighter human form, wouldn't they? _The argument made some sense, but the thought of someone else seeing her in her ogress state still sent shivers of fear and shame through her. It seemed that old habits…and mindsets…really did die hard.

Fiona found a spot several yards off of the path she had been traveling that seemed secluded and, she hoped, secure enough. There was shrubbery and a large rotting log between the spot and the path to aid concealment. She took her helmet off and ate a couple of pieces of bread; it was filling stuff, and she seemed to have packed plenty for a while, but she did wonder how long it might last. But now that she was free and in the woods, she thought of how she could broaden her food supply with nuts and berries and roots – once she could determine which ones weren't poisonous. Maybe she'd get lucky and find a fruit tree. Or figure out a way to catch fish. Or find some eggs. There were a number of possibilities, she was sure.

She washed down the bread with some water, re-sealed the waterskin, and then used it as an improvised pillow as she lay down on her back for the nap. As she continued pondering alternate sources for protein her eyes fluttered closed and soon she began dozing off. As her conscious mind became oblivious to the world around her, her hand, which was lying near the rotting log, moved over to and brushed against its decaying bark. Her fingers feeling something soft and writhing that had been crawling there, she instinctively pinched it, brought it over to her mouth, and slipped it in. As the bug popped between her teeth a contented smile graced her lips, and a moment later she lapsed completely into deep sleep…

* * *

Fiona opened her eyes to find herself lying in the center of a plush queen-sized bed, her head and shoulders buoyed by a stack of silk-cased eiderdown pillows. The nightgown she wore was of fine linen, as were the bed sheets and comforter that covered her. The bed itself was set in a large, regal bedchamber. Despite the drastic difference in circumstance, Fiona still felt exhausted, but it was a different type of exhausted. And she was still in pain, but it was a different kind of pain, and it didn't emanate from her side anymore, but from her lower torso.

She heard a light melodic humming from beside her, and turned her head to see an elegantly dressed woman sitting in a posh chair, a tiara set within carefully coiffured hair that was once vibrant strawberry blond but had dulled somewhat over time and bore occasional strands of gray. She wore it not unlike Fiona had worn hers, but instead of a ponytail the back of this woman's hair was bound in a snood. The woman was looking down at, humming to, and gently rocking a baby – a rather large baby – that she cradled in her arms and which was wrapped in a blanket that concealed its features from Fiona. Fiona gasped as she recognized the woman. Obviously older than the last time she had seen her, but still her—

"_Mom?_" Fiona said.

The woman abruptly stopped humming and looked at her. "Ah, darling, you're awake," she observed, smiling sweetly. "How do you feel?"

Fiona looked down at her own hands – dainty, human hands – pristine, without even the scars suffered over the past several hours. She reached up and felt her soft, demure, human face. "Oh, thank heaven," Fiona said, leaving her hands caressing her cheeks for a few moments. Then she let them drop to her sides, looked back at her mother, and asked, "But… how did I get here?"

"This is your home, child," her mother said. "Well, one of them." Her brow knitted in concern. "Are you all right?"

"Then…I _did_ escape the tower?" Fiona said, trying to come to grips with her situation…whatever it was.

"Of course," her mother replied. "With help from your husband, naturally."

"_Husband?_"

"Well, future husband," her mother clarified, looking at Fiona with more scrutiny. "Surely you recall your wedding?"

Fiona closed her eyes and her body went completely slack with relief. "Thank goodness," she said. "I guess my dream really _did_ come true. The rest must have all been a horrid delusion."

"Dear, you do seem to be a bit befuddled," her mother said worriedly. A moment later Fiona felt her mother's palm against her forehead. "How _do_ you feel?" her mother asked.

Fiona opened her eyes, nodded to the lower portion of her torso, and said, "It hurts…down there."

"Well, I imagine so," her mother said, a wisp of amusement in her voice as she removed her hand from her daughter's forehead, settled back into the chair, and again cradled the baby with both arms. "Especially with your having just given birth to triplets. But the pain will fade before too long. You'll see."

Fiona jerked her head back toward her mother. "_Triplets?_" she said, and then looked again toward the baby in her mother's arms. It was starting to squirm and gurgle within its blanket. The form appeared to be about the size of what Fiona would expect a six-month old to be. "_Just_ given birth?"

"Oh, yes," her mother cooed, looking back down at the baby with fondness. Then she reached down and gingerly unwrapped the coverings from around its face. "This one's especially cute," she said. "Doesn't he have his father's eyes?"

Her mother gently held the baby toward her daughter, and Fiona found herself beholding the pudgy green face and big brown eyes of a smiling baby ogre.

Fiona screamed.

* * *

Fiona's eyes sprang open, and she barely had time to realize that she had only had a nightmare when her vision focused and she found herself staring into the even larger brown eyes of an upside-down face covered in gray and white fur hovering directly above hers.

Fiona screamed briefly for real this time, awkwardly drew her sword and tried to spring to her feet but was quickly driven down to one knee by a sharp protest of pain in her side from her wound. The creature that she had found herself staring at also uttered a startled 'G'ahh!' as it fell back in terror upon its haunches. To Fiona's relief, she realized that it was only a small donkey.

"Please please _please_ don't kill me, lady!" the animal implored. "I was just curious, I didn't mean anything!"

"It _talks!_" Fiona said.

The donkey's fear seemed to yield briefly to indignation as it said, "Hey, whoa, now, what's this 'it' business? The proper pronoun here would be _he_, thanks very much!" Then again noting the sword pointed at him, he offered a toothy, uneasy grin and added, "Not that I mean to be pedantic or nothing!"

"Oh!" Fiona said. "I'm sorry, you…just startled me. I wasn't expecting to literally come face-to-face with a talking animal!" Although, as she reflected on her life so far, she wondered why she should be surprised.

"Yeah, well, I wasn't expecting to find a girl soldier taking a nap in the middle of the day out alone in the woods, so I was just checking you out to make sure you were still, y'know, breathing and stuff," the donkey said. "I, um, didn't mean to scare ya. Sorry."

"That's…quite all right," Fiona said, calming herself. When she saw the donkey still staring at the sword that she held at the ready, she said, "Oh! Sorry!" and sheathed it. The donkey sighed with relief and rose to stand on all four of his feet again as Fiona tried to ignore the pain as she rose to stand on her two.

"Say," she said, noting their hidden position, "how did you find me, anyway?"

"Just scrounging for food," the donkey said. "I've been kinda on my own for a while, and living off grass all the time gets old after a while. Anyway, I thought I smelled something tasty, so I thought I'd check it out."

"Something tasty?"

"Yeah, you know, some kinda baked goods."

"Ah!" Fiona said, and then reached for the satchel that held the elvin bread to find that she had forgotten to seal it before her nap. She heard the donkey's lips smack, and saw him staring at it intently. She then took a closer look at the animal. His frame did seem a bit emaciated, and she imagined his somewhat rough looking coat had seen better days. "You mean this?" she asked, taking out a piece of the bread and holding it toward him.

The donkey's eyes grew larger. "Say, is that that whatchamacallit stuff the elves eat?"

"Yes, I believe so," she said.

"They say that stuff tastes great," he said.

"Yes, so I've heard," she agreed. She _had_ been told that when they left her in the tower, and she supposed her parents had believed it – at least, she would like to believe that they did. She didn't have the heart to tell them that to her it tasted bland. But then, she had been cursed with taste buds that favored things that others thought little of. Like things that wriggled and crawled. And fruitcake.

"Though it's not as good as waffles," he said.

"_Waffles?_" Fiona asked, surprised.

"Oh, yeah. You'd be surprised at how many creatures you find out in the forest just _love_ waffles!"

"Really?" Fiona said. "That's interesting. I'll have to remember that."

"Still, since there aren't any waffles nearby…" the donkey stared at the bread in her hand intently, and licked his lips.

Fiona smiled. "Go ahead, take some."

"Thank you much, Miss, don't mind if I do!" he said, and quickly advanced and snatched the bread out of her hand. She smiled as he gobbled it down, and she pulled out another piece. He ate that one, too, savoring the second one a bit more. Then he ate a third, after which he accepted a drink from Fiona's waterskin.

"Thank ye kindly Miss…um…?" the donkey said, prompting Fiona for an introduction.

"I am Prin—" Fiona began, but then checked herself. If she were trying to stay 'dead' it would be best not to spread her name around to beings that could talk…and especially not to those that appeared to enjoy doing so.

The donkey cocked one eyebrow inquisitively while waiting for Fiona to finish. As Fiona tried to think of how to conclude, the donkey, apparently thinking that she _had_ finished, said, "'Prin', huh? Well, that's a unique name. Kinda cute, though. So, Prin, are you on a mission to save France, or you just on your way to slay some orcs?"

"Huh?" Fiona said, confused. When the donkey nodded at her soldierly attire, she said, "Oh! Um. No. I'm just…traveling. I figured it would be safer traveling dressed like this. You know, with robbers in the woods and everything."

"Robbers!" the donkey said, suddenly agitated. "Where?" He then started looking about fearfully.

"No, I don't mean right _now!_" she said, trying to calm him. "It's just…precautionary."

"Oh. Okay," the donkey said, slowing settling back down. "So…where you traveling to, Prin?"

"Oh, just…traveling," she said. "Just a…see the world type of thing. You know, adventure in the great wide somewhere…et cetera."

The donkey squinted in skeptical consideration for a few moments, then his face took on a knowing look and he said, "Oh, _now_ I get it. You're one of us, huh?" Then he winked.

Now it was Fiona's turn to be confused again. "One of…_you?_"

"Fairytale creatures," he said. "You're on the run from Lord Farquaad too, ain't ya? Or, as Bo Peep used to say, on the lam."

"Farquaad?" Fiona gasped. There was that name again. A name that seemed to grow viler every time she heard it. What did he have against fairytale creatures? And _was_ she a fairytale…'creature'? At first blush she found the insinuation absurd and insulting. But as she mulled it over briefly, she realized that perhaps to some she might appear that way. Blast that curse!

"Soooo, you _are_ one of us, then," the donkey said with self satisfaction, apparently misinterpreting her reaction to Farquaad's name. "So, what are you, Wiccan? You don't look Wiccan. Maybe you're some sort of fairy?"

"No, it's not like that," Fiona said evasively, "not _really_."

"Okay, okay, I get ya, Prin. Don't ask, don't tell." The donkey sighed. "Where _are_ you going to, then? Maybe I can help."

Fiona paused for a moment, considering. The temptation – the need – to confide in another sentient being was just so alluring. "I…um…southeast" was all she trusted herself to say.

The donkey cocked an eyebrow again. "Really? That'll take you a bit close to Duloc for my taste. You sure you don't wanna head north?"

"No," she said, perhaps a bit too quickly. "I'm…sure."

"Well, okay," he said. "Thanks again for the bread. Good luck…wherever you're heading."

"Thank you," Fiona said, and tried not to wince as she gingerly leaned down to pick up the helmet which she then settled back over her head. "Fare thee well, donkey."

Fiona had only taken a dozen or so steps when the pain in her side caused her to stop. She bit her lip, took a few deep breaths, and then started walking again. A dozen or so more steps and she had to stop once more, and this time went back down onto one knee.

The donkey rushed over to stand beside her. "Hey, you okay?" he asked with concern.

"I…have a bit of an injury," she said, trying to keep the pain from showing through her voice. "I just need to rest for a bit."

"It looks to me like you just finished resting," the donkey observed.

"Then I need to rest some _more_," she said with mild annoyance.

The donkey looked her over a bit longer, pursing his lips in contemplation. Then he said, "Y'know, I could take ya to Duloc. Well, close enough so you can make the rest of your way there, or at least call for help. Maybe they can fix ya there. Then…well, it's better to be alive and imprisoned than free and dead."

"What? Duloc? Imprisoned? No!" Fiona said. If that were to happen, she was sure her identity would be discovered, and _that_ would surely mean eventual death for her anyway.

"Wow, you'd rather die than be imprisoned," the donkey said in admiration, misunderstanding her reasoning. "Well, you're braver than me. Tell ya what, let me at least help get you to wherever you're going. Hop on."

"Pardon me?"

The donkey's head jerked toward his back. "Hop on. I can take you southeast. It's not like I've got any pressing appointments or anything."

"Why, that's quite kind of you," she said. "But aren't you a bit…well, small for a donkey? To carry a passenger, I mean."

The donkey was taken aback. "Look, lady, maybe I'm not some big highfaluting stallion, but I'm strong for my size. I've carried whole carts brimming with goods or passengers in my day, and I could again if I had to."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to slight you. I just don't want to be a burden."

"Naah, you ain't no burden, Prin. Go ahead, hop on."

"Thank you," Fiona said, deciding to take him up on the offer for a while. She carefully mounted the donkey's back, and then he began trotting off. The bounce of his trot didn't do her side much good, but at least it was better than walking. She also found that because of the donkey's lack of height she either had to hold her feet up or let them to drag on the ground, allowing the metal sabatons to absorb the drag while protecting her toes.

"Besides, Prin," the donkey said after a short while, "you ain't getting rid of me now!"

"Huh?"

"Somebody brave like you. Rather risk death than give herself up to the forces of evil and stuff like that. You've _inspired_ me, Prin! So here we are, two stalwart friends off on a whirlwind adventure!"

Fiona blushed. His mistaking her fear of discovery for bravery was ironic. She hardly felt brave. Especially since just the thought of having her transformation witnessed, even by this donkey, terrified her.

"No, really, donkey," she said, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice. "I just need a short ride, and then—"

"And then I'll hang around and do what I can for you till you're better."

"No, please, you don't need—"

"Hey, no problem! I _want_ to help. In fact, I insist! You and me, Prin, we're gonna be tight like waffles and syrup! Bread and butter! Toast and jam! Peanut butter and jelly! Um, say, Prin, could I have just a little more of that bread of yours? Nope, nevermind, we'd better wait till the next rest stop. Not good to trot on too full a stomach. Besides, if there's one thing I am, it's patient!"

Fiona sighed in resignation. She now had a new, unexpected, and unwanted dilemma to deal with.

"So, Southeast, huh?" he said.

"Huh? Oh…um, yes," she replied.

"That's…kinda specific. Not south. Not east. Southeast."

"Yes."

"You got family down there or something?"

Fiona remained silent for a few seconds. Southeast was the most direct route to take her further away from Far Far Away, which she still considered the most dangerous threat for now. "We can turn east later," she said. "When we get closer to Duloc. For now, I need to head southeast."

"Becauuuuse?" he prodded.

"It's…personal," she said.

"Okay, okay, I don't mean to be nosey," the donkey apologized. He was silent himself for almost ten seconds before he spoke again. "Y'know, I've got a cousin over in Spain who used to have adventures with knights. They called him 'Donkeyhotey'. Fought dragons, he did." The donkey shivered. "Man, if there's one thing I can't _stand_ it's dragons! Anyway, there was this one time when he…"

For the next hour or so the donkey talked about his cousin. Then, with a little discrete nudging from Fiona – it didn't take much – he started talking about Duloc. From the long elucidation that followed she learned that Farquaad had decided that fairytale 'freaks' – beings that didn't fit into his vision of the inhabitants of the perfect kingdom that he wanted to build in Duloc – should be banished. And not just banished, but forced to take residence in a secluded piece of swampland that was, as the donkey put it, 'a place that nobody in their right mind would want to live in.' The donkey himself was sentenced to report to the swamp after his owner sold him to Farquaad's henchmen, but through cleverness and daring-do – as he told it – he managed to escape, and had been hiding out in the forest ever since. At some point during his expositions Fiona realized she hadn't thought to ask his name, but once he started rolling she found it hard to fit a word in edgewise. An occasional 'yes, donkey' or 'really, donkey?' or 'I don't know, donkey' was the best that she could manage. She just continued referring to him as 'donkey', and as he seemed to respond as if that were really his name, she gave up and just called him that.

As the sun slowly descended westward Donkey eventually switched from conversation (however one-sided) to singing travel songs…of which he seemed to have an unending supply. Fiona realized with growing trepidation that she would soon need to make a decision: to reveal her secret to her companion or to find some way of getting away from him so that she could transform and spend the night in privacy. Who knew, ogres were supposed to be quick healers, perhaps an entire quiet, restful, uneventful night spent in her ogress form would hasten the healing of her wound. She certainly hoped so.

She toyed with the idea of just telling him about herself – the transforming part, that was. She certainly didn't intend to reveal her royal identity. After all, he was being quite kind to take her as far as he had, and he was apparently a fugitive himself, so perhaps she could trust him. But as the sun grew more orange and neared the horizon, her old fears of revelation and fresh memories of betrayal overtook her, and she resolved to find some way to be rid of his presence.

Once she had made her decision, Fiona began paying much more attention to her surroundings. She soon saw an opportunity: as the path led them toward the ford of a stream she noted the foliage to either side grew denser, with large clumps of bulrushes about the stream's banks. She glanced over to the sun. It was becoming a bit harder to discern through the trees, but she guessed she had maybe half an hour of sunlight left. She bit her lip. She was going to hate herself later for what she was about to do, but for now it was the only way she could think of to get rid of Donkey without having to answer awkward questions.

"Donkey," she said. "Could we please stop? My side really hurts right now." That part, at least, was true enough.

"Oh. Sure, Prin," he said, came to a halt, and knelt helpfully so that she could dismount with minimum effort.

Fiona did carefully dismount, and decided maybe she really should check the wound out. She gingerly lifted the chain mail and surcoat to reveal the angry dark red scab where she had cauterized the wound. More distressing was that the area appeared inflamed and puffy, and an oval of purple surrounded it, dark purple near the wound side and progressively lightening to lavender as it spread out for an area of some two or three inches around it.

"Say…that…that looks pretty bad," Donkey said, and suddenly appeared woozy. Instinctively Fiona dropped her chain mail and surcoat and caught his head with both hand as he began to faint.

"Donkey! Are you all right?" she asked with genuine concern.

"Oh. Uh. Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine," he said, still a bit unsteady but in no longer in immediate danger of swooning.

Mentally, Fiona kicked herself. It would have been easier if she had just let him faint. Now she would have to go through with her plan. But first she wanted to express her honest appreciation. She stoked one side of his face tenderly and said, "Donkey, I really, really want to thank you for all you've done. I am very grateful. You truly are a noble steed."

"Ah, chucks, twern't nothing," Donkey said modestly, seeming to have returned to full consciousness. "What are friends for?"

Fiona sighed and dropped her hands. "Now, I need to treat this wound, and I need your help to do so."

"Oh, sure, Prin, what can I do?" Donkey asked.

Fiona hesitated just a moment longer, and then said, "I need you to run deeper into the woods and find me a blue flower with red thorns."

"Blue flower, red thorns," Donkey repeated. "Okay, I'm on it!" He dashed into the undergrowth, repeating, "Blue flower, red thorns…"

Fiona waited a few seconds, sighed, then turned toward a thicker patch of woods, making sure it was upwind so that Donkey wouldn't be able to scent her food again. Her food! Fiona halted, quickly undid the satchel with the bread, and laid out a few more portions on the ground. Then she drew her sword and quickly sketched a rough 'Thank you!' beside it. Then she glanced back to where Donkey had disappeared, quickly re-sheathed her sword and refastened her food satchel as she headed off the path and into the thicket as quickly as her protesting side would allow, trying to stay as quiet as possible. About thirty feet in she heard the scamper of hooves returning, so she dropped to the ground in a well-secluded part of the thicket and waited.

"Prin!" she heard Donkey call. "Prin, I found your flowers! Where'd you go, girl? Prin!"

There was then a pause, which Fiona assumed was when he found the bread and her scratching.

"Well, of all the…" she heard him say, and then he heaved a great disappointed sigh.

Fiona bit her lip guiltily. Despite her companion's species orientation, it was _she_ who felt like an ass. How perversely odd, she reflected, that she could face a dragon's wrath, but she couldn't face her fear of discovery by someone who didn't already know her secret. She nearly found the courage to rise and reveal herself, but her inner voice spoke again. _Better safe than sorry, Fiona_. Yes. Better to be safe. And secure. And alone. Just like in the tower.

She heard munching sounds for a few seconds, then Donkey said in an increasingly pathetic tone, "Okay, then. Fine. I guess I'll go on. All on my own. Alone. All by myself." In fact, he then broke into a sad crack-voiced rendition of the song 'All By Myself' as he finally started walking on. Fiona thought she could almost _hear_ him holding his head down low as his voice slowly receded.

Fiona waited. Five minutes. Ten. Twenty. And as Fiona waited, she wiped her brow. She had been sweating for a while, she realized. At first she thought it was nervousness, executing her scheme to elude Donkey and then waiting to see if he would move on. But the sweat continued. She took her helmet off and sat it beside her, and then held the back of her hand against her forehead. Warm, she thought. She might be starting a fever. "That's just great," she murmured. But was sweating a sign of _getting_ a fever, or _breaking_ one…even if she didn't have one before? Blast if she knew; she was a princess, not a doctor. All she knew was that she was hot. And in pain. And wet.

She was also thirsty.

She opened her waterskin and took a long drink, leaving the container nearly empty. She needed to refill it. She lifted her head from her hiding place to take as good a look as possible to make sure Donkey was gone. He was, as she assumed, long gone now. She then made her way out of the thicket and to the bank of the stream, dropping to her knees at its edge.

First Fiona splashed some water over her face to cool it, and then she dipped the waterskin into the stream. As she waited for it to fill, she looked down into the wavering water at her human reflection; even with the mangled remains of her hair, it was beautiful. Then she looked toward the horizon. Although the horizon itself was obscured, she guessed by the amount and color of the light that she could make out through the trees and the dwindling light around her that the sun would soon be down, and her beautiful human form would again be gone for yet another long, lonely night. Different venue, same scenario. But then, as she continued looking at the trees, she noticed something that she'd overlooked before: a few feet off the path where the forest became denser there was a wooden sign nailed to a tree. It had faded green paint on a weathered white background, which along with the lengthening shadows had made it hard to discern. She squinted to make it out better; the paint was a rough drawing of a skull and crossbones, with two words written above it: 'KEEP OUT!'

Fiona shuddered, then looked back down into the water and saw her human reflection there again, along with the reflection of the man standing behind and looking down at her.


	16. An Unorthodox Rescue

**Layer 16: An Unorthodox Rescue**

Fiona shrieked and reached for her sword while simultaneously trying to get up and swing herself around. But the man had the element of surprise on her and his reflexes were quicker than her overtaxed body could counter, and he had snatched her sword from its scabbard a split second before Fiona's hand arrived. A push from his boot also disrupted her attempt to rise and she fell clumsily onto her back. A jolt of pain exploding from her side made her groan, and it took a moment for her to realize that the man was laughing at her. She forced herself to focus, noting the man's lean but solid build and woodland attire, all shades of green and brown, including the green tights encasing his legs. He wore a quiver of arrows strapped to his back and a dagger was sheathed on his belt. Beneath his huntsman's cap was a handsome face framed by dark hair and goatee.

After a few moments he stopped laughing and said, in a French-accented voice, "Bonjour, mon cherie! Please forgive the rudeness of this introduction. But I did not wish rash first impressions to…" He looked over her sword, felt its edge, and then continued "…cut our relationship short." He then turned, and calling "Petit Jean!" tossed it back to another man standing some ten feet behind him, similarly dressed but taller and heftier, who deftly caught it by its handle.

The taller man, 'Petit Jean', examined the sword, flexed it, and said, "Peu de valeur. Tarnished. Worn. Scorched. Ehh." He then tossed it aside.

"Quel dommage," the man standing above Fiona said regretfully. Then he looked back down at her and his aggressively cheery manner returned. "Ah, pondon moi," he said. Then he reached down, offered his hand, and said, "Allow me, s'il vous plait."

Fiona stared at the outstretched hand for a moment, then at the waning sunlight filtering through the trees, and then at the man's face, which still bore a smile, but with the hint of a leer. She felt on the verge of panic. As an ogre she had bested a dragon, but could she best these two men as a human? It might have been an interesting challenge some other time. She even found the idea oddly intriguing, another peculiar influence from her ogrid self, she reasoned. But in the shape she was presently in, where just walking without pain was challenge enough, she didn't think so. She felt she had no choice but to play along for a little while. The knowledge that a little while was all she had did not calm her.

With a sneer to answer his leer, she reluctantly grabbed the man's hand and allowed him to pull her up as she tried to hide her physical discomfort. But once she was on her feet, instead of letting go, the man continued to hold her hand as he began planting kisses up her wrist.

"Hey!" she said angrily, jerking her arm away. "Look, pal, I don't know _who_ you think you are—"

"Ah! Again, how rude of me," the man said contritely. "Please, let me introduce myself." Then he turned, laid a hand beside his mouth and called, "_Oh merry me-en!_"

Suddenly a monk holding an accordion and sitting on a small plank suspended by ropes like a swing dropped down from a tree. As he began playing a jaunty tune four other men dressed in garb similar to her assailant and also with quivers strapped to their backs appeared out of the woods, making acrobatic backflips, all chanting in chorus fashion "Ta dah, ta dah, dah, dah!" as they did so, ending with a combined "Whooo!" as they landed beside Petit Jean while her assailant leapt back to just in front of them. Then, to Fiona's open-mouthed amazement, he began to sing:

"_I take from the rich_

_And spend on the needy_

_For glaring opulence_

_Makes the rich look greedy_

_And spreading of the wealth_

_Makes us ALL feel good!_"

Then the 'merry men' concluded:

"_Our savior! Monsieur Hood!_"

"Break it down," the leader – 'Monsieur Hood' – said, and then the men began an Irish folk dance.

Fiona closed her eyes, shook her head, and then opened her eyes and said, "Stop it, okay? Please? Just stop!"

But the group continued to dance and then looked like it was about to break into another chorus.

"I said I want you to stop NOW!" Fiona commanded in a voice forceful enough to stop the men with their mouths hanging open and their feet in mid-step. The accordion ended in a long, plaintive note.

They all stared at Fiona for a moment, then Hood said, "Pardon nous. We do have other variations, if you'd like to—"

"What do you want from me?" she demanded, forcing herself to appear much more in control than she felt.

"Well, mon cherie," Hood said, taking out his dagger and casually gesturing to the satchel hanging from her side that contained the coins that she took from the keep, "I believe my trained ears caught some cliquetis – or, how you say, jingling – from your satchel, and from the size it appears enough to buy many poor people many loaves of bread – after a small handling fee for ourselves. Surely you would not deprive the poor of bread? Or us of our…" he looked her up and down for a moment, and then continued suggestively, "…handling?"

Fiona blushed, then crossed her arms in front of her bosom and said defiantly, "I think I'd rather donate through more respectable organizations, thank you very much."

"Ah! Sacre bleu!" he said, rolling his eyes. "But they are all thieves!"

"But I should trust _you?_" Fiona said, "Just because you claim to be a –" Then she blinked. "_Savior_, did they say?"

"Oh, mais oui," he said with feigned modesty, rubbing his fingernails on his tunic and then looking at them.

"Savior in this case meaning…_rescuer_?" she asked with more sincerity.

"Ahummmm…je suppose," he replied, apparently surprised and confused by her odd question and shift in tone.

_Rescuer_, Fiona thought. _Her_ rescuer? Could this handsome French bandit possibly be the one to release her from her curse? Hugely improbable, she realized. But the sun would be completely set at any moment, and in her desperation this appeared the only straw within grasping distance. Steeling herself to ignore the pain, she strode forward the few yards that separated them and, to Hood's and his men's astonishment, grabbed him by the tunic, pulled him toward her, and planted her lips forcefully against his in a kiss.

The kiss lasted several seconds. At first Hood's arms just flailed beside him, but then he relaxed, sheathed his dagger, and began putting his arms around Fiona. But when his tongue begin to slip into her mouth Fiona felt a wave of repulsion, let him go and shoved him away forcefully while simultaneously stepping backward herself. Thrown slightly off balance, she continued back-peddling a few steps until they were some five yards apart before she completely righted herself.

"Mon Dieu!" Hood exclaimed. Then he turned back to his men. "Mes amis, we have found the right var-i-a-tion!" he declared ebulliently, and as the men raised a cheer he turned back toward Fiona, desire written across his face. But as he began walking toward her, one of his men called with a frightened voice, "Monsieur! Stop! Attention!"

Hood was about to turn and give the man a stony glare when he realized what he was referring to. A mist, laced with specks of gold, had begun swirling around Fiona's feet.

"Oh, no!" she whined. "We kissed! We kissed, blast it! This isn't fair! _This isn't right!_"

The princess began to wail as the swirling mist rose yet again to envelop her, and once more she felt her body expanding and rearranging as her wail morphed into an ogre's roar. A moment later the mist vanished, revealing the ogress. Hood's men gasped in horror. All took an involuntary step back except for one, who fainted.

The roar ceased and the ogress fell onto her knees and slumped forward, panting, her head drooping in embarrassment and defeat.

"Mon Dieu!" Hood said again, this time in revulsion. "The beauty is a beast! What manner of sorcery is _this?_" He violently wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and then spat on the ground in disgust. "What evil enchantment are you trying to cast upon me, monster?"

"I…I am not a monster," Fiona said meekly, forcing back tears and lifting her head. Misty blue eyes stared up at him from a pudgy green face framed by her long, loose, now unkempt red hair. "I am under a curse. At night, I—"

"Not only a beast, but a _cursed_ beast!" one of the men said.

Hood nodded. "Mais oui," he agreed, drawing his dagger again and pointing it toward her.

"Look! Everything about her has grown!" another of the men said.

"Even her clothes!" said another.

"And look at the size of her oreilles!" exclaimed a voice.

"I'm looking!" responded another, almost breathless.

A moment later, as the shock of the transformation faded, one noted more analytically, "That satchel of gold she wears does not seem to have grown."

"But it has not shrunk, either," said another slyly.

The others, their fright receding, mumbled their agreement.

"Slay the bête, Monsieur," one of them urged Hood. "Take your blade and ram it through its heart before whatever vile spell it cast with that kiss takes effect. Then we can take its gold and put the demon's wealth to the service of good!"

Hood, still pointing his dagger toward Fiona, seemed to contemplate his underling's words for a moment, and then he addressed her. "You. Monster. Toss the sack to us, and we may yet let you live."

Fiona looked across at the faces staring down at her. Faces filled with disgust and loathing. Exactly the reactions that she had feared. A few minutes ago she was an object of desire. Now she was an object of detestation. And yet she was the same person. One corner of her mouth broke into a sneer as she expressed her own disgust at these shallow, pathetic gawkers. Seven men altogether. Now in her ogress state, she wondered if she might actually be able to put up a fight against all of them. The transformation had temporarily weakened her, as it almost always did, but she was beginning to feel power trickling back into her limbs. She rose from her slumped position so that she was sitting straighter on her knees. But even that modest effort was greeted by a protest of pain from her side. Also, not only was she still feeling warm, she was also starting to feel somewhat light-headed. Blast. Perhaps if she did toss them the gold, and then begged for her life…

"Do it now, monster," Hood prompted, gesturing with the dagger. "This is your last warning."

Fiona's eyes narrowed. No. She would not degrade herself. Princess or not, ogress or not, she was tired of living in crippling fear, and to worry about what pathetic, small-minded bigots, who knew nothing about her, thought of her, suddenly seemed like a terrible waste of life. A life that she would _not_ see end on her knees before swine like these. Trying to ignore the pain, she struggled to a standing position. She stumbled for a moment, feeling a bit more woozy once on her feet, but then righted herself and stared at the men before her, who looked considerably less sure of themselves now that she stood as tall or taller than any of them, save perhaps Petit Jean. Her sneer turned into a smirk. She reached down and unloosed the knife strapped to her ankle, which Hood had either overlooked or didn't think she'd have the chutzpa to use when so out-numbered. But then, he didn't anticipate her turning into an ogre, either. Although she assumed that his skills with a knife far exceeded hers, just seeing an ogre wielding a deadly weapon might give her opponents pause. She hoped so, anyway. That and a little self-confidence – even if feigned. She held the knife at the ready as she faced Hood. "Go for it," she said coldly, trying to ignore the sweat she felt beading on her brow, not all of which was from her fever.

Hood stared at her for a few moments, an uncertain expression on his face, and Fiona thought she might just pull the bluff off. But then a wave of dizziness struck her, and she swayed on her feet for a moment, nearly blacking out. She righted herself once more, but when she was able to focus on him again Hood's face had resumed that smug look and arrogant grin. "C'est tres bien. En garde!" he said, and took a step toward her.

Suddenly the attention of Fiona, Hood, and the band of merry men were diverted by the sound of something crashing through the branches of the trees above and beside them, in the direction of the 'KEEP OUT!' sign that Fiona had seen. Then from out of the tops of the trees a huge figure appeared, with the broad frame, green skin, and protruding earstalks of a great bull ogre. With one hand he grasped a vine by which he swung; under the opposite arm he carried a wooden log, some six feet long and a foot in width.

The ogre released the vine and dropped dramatically between Fiona and Hood, landing with an earth-shaking thud, facing the bandit and shielding her. "Mon dieu!" Hood gasped, retreating a couple of paces by reflex.

"Sorry to drop in unannounced," the ogre said, patting the log threateningly against one beefy hand as if it were no more than a baseball bat, "but I was out taking care of some chores when I caught the roar of a lady in distress. You wouldn't be bothering her now, would yeh?"

Fiona was positioned just a few feet behind the ogre, and she had nearly screamed at his sudden and startling appearance, but she had managed to restrain herself. It was the first time she had ever seen an ogre – _another_ ogre – in person, and not just from some drawing or story illustration…or from gazing in a mirror. She gaped at his huge, broad back, which was draped, she noted, by a goatskin vest which didn't quite cover the coarse, shabby shirt he wore. His neck was thick and muscular, and his head, the top of which reached some seven feet high, was completely bald save for a smattering of small spots a little darker green than his skin. The brawny arms that so easily held the log seemed as wide as small tree trunks themselves. His voice bore some sort of accent – a brogue, was it? Scottish, perhaps? And his stench that hit her nostrils cleared her dizzy head like smelling salts, at least for now. Although she knew she _should_ have found the odor repulsive, somehow she didn't.

She poked her head around his side so that she could see the bandits' reactions.

Hood looked up at the creature looming before him, swallowed, and then brandished his dagger. Reassuming an arrogant posture, he said, "N'approchez pas, monster, or your heart shall feel the wrath of my steel!"

The ogre chortled. "Isn't that just like a human?" he said. "Brings a knife to a log fight!" Then he suddenly looked past Hood as if something in the background had caught his eye. "Oh, look!" the ogre said. "A rainbow pony!"

"The quelle?" Hood said, befuddled, and turned to follow the ogre's gaze.

The moment that Hood looked the other way, the ogre rapped him smartly on the head with the log. Not enough to do lasting damage, but enough to turn out the bandit's lights for a while. Hood dropped his dagger and wobbled on his feet for a moment – Fiona could swear she heard little birds chirping – and then he collapsed onto the ground.

The merry men stared drop-jawed down at their felled leader for a while, and then back up at the ogre.

"Now then," the ogre said, "if you'd care t'step aside and let us pass, we'll just call it a night. Fair 'nuff?" He then pounded the log on the ground for emphasis.

The merry men continued to stare at the ogre for a few moments. But then Petit Jean called, "Archers!" Suddenly the bandits pulled arrows from their quivers and took aim with their bows at the ogre.

"Oh boy, here we go again," the ogre muttered tiredly. At first Fiona thought he was speaking to himself, but then he added, "Stay behind me, girlie."

Fiona drew back so that he completely shielded her as the bandits let their arrows fly. The ogre twirled the log before him, using it as a shield against the barrage. Fiona heard some of the arrows land harmlessly in the wood. But she also heard sickening thunks as two arrowheads found flesh. But the ogre made only the lightest of grunts in acknowledgement of the hits, and only Fiona's proximity and sharp hearing allowed her to hear him.

The ogre actually laughed, then reached down to his thigh and pulled out one of the arrows, again with only a light grunt. He held it up in with one huge hand, in which the shaft seemed no more than a stick. "Well, now," he said. "Yeh seem t've dropped something!" He then tightened his grip, snapping the arrow like a twig.

Fiona again peeked around the ogre's side. She saw the bandits staring, again slack-jawed, at her defender. The ogre opened his hand, letting the remains of the arrow drop. Then his demeanor changed, almost palpably, as his posture became more hunched and his knees bent, as if he were about to pounce. But instead, she heard him mumble, "My turn." He then sucked in an enormous breath, paused, and then let loose with a great, giant ogre roar. The torrent of air he released was so strong that it blew the caps off of most of the bandits, and threatened to blow the bandits themselves off their feet as well. The men screamed in terror, although their screams were drowned out by the volume of the creature before them. Fiona had thought her roars impressive; now she realized that they were like the yowls of a pussycat to this male's lion.

After what seemed an eternity the ogre's roar faded out, followed a few seconds later by the fading of the bandits' screams of terror. Their expressions remained pale and horrified, however, and they seemed frozen in place. Fiona noted some of them wore the ogre's spittle, despite the distance between them. The ogre relaxed, casually wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and looked them over.

"Ahem," he said. "This is the part—"

The bandits all screamed, turned around and ran into the forest. The monk fell off his perch, his accordion making a rude sound as he landed on it with his stomach. He scrambled to his feet, took a last frightened look at the ogre, and then ran after his fellows into the woods.

Suddenly, with the danger past, Fiona felt the wooziness returning, and this time stronger than before. She collapsed onto her back, even as the ogre, oblivious to her swoon, laughed and stared after where the bandits had retreated. "Best weapon in an ogre's arsenal!" he said, still snickering as he finally began turning toward her, "A good dose of shock and—"

It was then he realized that she had collapsed.

"Aawww, girlie, are you okay?" he said, dropping to one knee beside her.

Fiona hoisted herself up onto one elbow. Her vision refocused, and she found herself staring into a wide, green, almost egg-shaped face. Big bushy eyebrows arched above concerned brown eyes, and beneath a large broad nose his mouth attempted a comforting grin. She noticed his earstalks were somewhat different from hers; they were set a tad higher on the sides of the head, and the ends were more closed. Fiona wondered if that was because he was male or because he was a different race of ogre than she had been cursed with being. Or perhaps her cursed form was imperfect, and she was a freak among freaks. Somehow she would not be surprised. Overall, his face looked somewhat…but not exactly…familiar, which made no sense to Fiona, since she had never – could never – have seen it before. It was also somewhat lined, with jowls that sagged a bit and graying sideburns, indicating that, despite his impressive physical skills, he was not in the prime of his life. Heaven help those he encountered when he _was_, she thought.

"I'm fine," she lied without even thinking. "That was all just…exhausting." Then she looked into his eyes. "Why…why did you help me?" she asked.

"Like I said b'fore, I heard a roar and figured it might be from a damsel in distress," he chuckled. "It looked like yeh needed a hand. I hope you weren't just toying wit them. I didn't spoil your fun, did I?"

"What? _Fun?_ No! I…but you don't even know me."

"Course I do. You're one of us: the few, the persecuted, the ogres. And though we like to keep t'ourselves, _no_ ogre ignores another one in distress. You'dve done the same for me."

Fiona felt herself blush, and wondered if it showed on her own green face. She wasn't sure if it was more from the embarrassment that this creature had mistakenly accepted her as one of his own, or that, _had_ she heard his roar from some mysterious part of the wood, she would have made sure to keep a wide berth. But then, she was ignorant of these ogres' ways. _THESE ogres, or WE ogres?_, that little gadfly voice in her mind chimed in. _No_, she thought in response. She was _not_ an ogre. That _this_ one had understandably mistaken her for another of his kind was certainly fortunate in this particular circumstance, but that didn't change her nature. No matter what she looked like – or smelled like – at the core of her being she was human, and thus above these creatures. That did sound a bit harsh, she reflected, but that's just how it was. In fact, as she reflected further, the ogre's description of his actions made it sound more like instinct, a way that these creatures managed to survive as a species, and _not_ driven by bravery or gallantry. Yes, that made sense, and fit better into her old world view. After the events of the past two days, Fiona felt that she _needed_ something that harkened back to when the world made sense. It was somehow comforting, when life experience challenged one's presuppositions, that when one had time to reflect and apply some rationalization and proper reasoning how one realized that those presuppositions really were right after all.

The ogre was continuing, "But as far as knowing you _personally_, let's take care of that right now…" he stuck out a big beefy hand. "Groyl's the name," he said.

Fiona smiled despite herself. Now that she had regained her perspective, she could deign to show the creature some magnanimity. "My name's…Prin," she said, and started to reach for his hand. But then she noticed that the arm above it still had an arrow embedded within it. "Oh, no!" she said. "That's all my fault! Here, let me help." With that, she quickly reached up and plucked the arrow from the ogre's flesh.

"G'aaaah", Groyl groaned, his face grimacing in pain.

"Oh! I'm sorry! I didn't mean to hurt…when you pulled the one from your leg it didn't seem to hurt nearly that much!"

"It wasn't _supposed_ to _seem_ to hurt, not in front of _that_ lot!" Groyl said, looking at Fiona as if she'd grown a second head. (And with her luck, Fiona reckoned that still might be possible.) "We _never_ show weakness in front of humans, 'specially the armed ones. 'Just encourages the blighters. For the love 'o Pete, girl, ain't you never been shot?"

"No," Fiona said, "just stabbed." Then, as if on cue, a spasm of pain cascaded through her side. Fiona shrieked and fell flat on her back again.

"Where? Where does it hurt?" Groyl asked, his demeanor suddenly deadly serious.

_So much for deception_, Fiona though. "My…side…" she said, and gestured to her wound.

Before she realized what was happening, Groyl seized handfuls of both surcoat _and_ chain mail to either side of the wound site and with a quick effort ripped both apart, exposing the wound. "Hey!" Fiona cried in protest, but Groyl seemed too occupied with examining the wound to note her objections.

"Hmmm," he muttered.

"What?"

"Not good," he said.

"That's…not reassuring," she said.

Groyl's body hitched slightly in a restrained chuckle. "Cauterized it yourself, did yeh?"

"Um-hum."

"First time?" he asked, gently probing around the wound site.

"Mm-MMmm," Fiona responding, wincing in pain at the prodding, however gentle. She wondered if the beast really knew what he was doing, or just imitating what he might have seen real doctors doing. Well, maybe with his life's experience, he really did know, at least about wounds. Considering her dire situation, she didn't have much of a choice but to trust him.

Groyle nodded noncommittally. His eyes had not left the wound side since he had exposed it. Thankfully he had stopped prodding, and rubbed his own chin thoughtfully for a few seconds instead. Then he turned to her and reached toward her face. Fiona let out an involuntary little squeal and leaned back away from the huge approaching paw.

"Calm down, girl, I just wanna take your temp," he said with mild irritation as he laid his palm down on her forehead. After it had rested there for a few moments he frowned. "How long yeh been this warm?"

"I'm not sure. A half hour. Maybe longer."

"And how long yeh been feeling faint?"

"Just a few minutes. Again, I'm not s—"

"Here," the ogre said, removing his hand from her head and reaching inside his vest. He pulled out some sort of ugly, dark brown root, about eight inches long. "Burdock root," he explained, "always good t'keep some on hand 'case yeh run into malicious humans, be it soldiers, bandits, or the torch 'n pitchfork lot. Here…" he held the root out toward her mouth, "eat it."

"Eat?" she said, her nostrils flaring at its earthy aroma. "Don't you mean just chew?"

"Chew?" he laughed. "For the love 'o Pete, girl, you're an ogre! You _eat_ it! Didn't your folks teach yeh _anything_ before they booted yeh?"

"Booted?" Fiona asked, confused.

"Yeah, booted, you know, the old heave-ho, when your folks sent yeh 'way from their home."

Fiona's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "How do _you_ know my parents sent me away?" she demanded.

Groyl rolled his eyes. "B'cause _all_ ogre kids get booted. It's a tradition! Good grief, yeh act like you was raised by humans or something. Now _eat_ the _root!_"

With those last words, Groyl shoved the root into Fiona's mouth, choking off any response she might have been preparing. With her choices abruptly limited to chewing or spitting it out, Fiona began chewing. Although a bit gummy, it actually didn't taste too bad. But then, she wondered what it would have tasted like to a normal human.

Groyl took one more look at the wound and heaved a heavy sigh. "'Fraid it's gonna take more'n that t'fix this up. I'll take yeh home. We've got stuff that'll help better there, and I can have my wife take a look at it too."

"Wife?" Fiona said, swallowing the chewed root. "You're _married?_"

"Yeah, sorry to disappoint yeh," he chuckled. "But then, I'm old enough t'be your father anyhow. Now just lie still…"

Groyl leaned down and started to slip his arms under Fiona. The ogress felt a sudden shiver of fear run through her. Although this ogre had been most helpful and surprisingly kind – _no_, that was just _instinct_, she reminded herself – she had no idea what might happen if she were suddenly delivered to a place with more ogres, let alone what such a 'home' might be like. Plus, she still found that part about ogre children being banished from their homes such as she had been sent from hers to be a bit of a coincidence. Was that a lie meant to cover up a slip on his part, or was fate playing another cruel jest on her? Could a true ogre, who – being an ogre – was no doubt mentally limited, even think up a lie that quickly? But even if Groyl were to be trusted, if she couldn't find a way to escape his lair before sunrise… "No! Please!" Fiona said. "You don't need to do that. You've been most kind, but I'm sure I'll be all right now."

Groyl shook his head. "I don't think so," he said, slipping his arms under her thighs and shoulder blades and picking her up with surprising ease.

"No! Please," Fiona felt her heart begin to pound as her head seemed to become lighter. "I'll be fine! I insist! I'll be…I'll…" Fiona's head began swimming as she looked up at Groyl's set jaw and focused eyes staring ahead as he strode into the woods, past the 'KEEP OUT!' sign and supposedly toward his home beyond. She realized to her horror that she was about to pass out, and then whatever this beast intended to do with her – or _to_ her – she would be powerless to resist. "Please," she said meekly, feeling herself fading, "please don't eat me."

"Eat you?" Groyl said, taken aback. Then his face began blurring out of focus and the last thing Fiona heard before passing into unconsciousness was his response, "For the love 'o Pete, girlie, what do yeh take me for?"


	17. An Unexpected Haven

**Layer 17: An Unexpected Haven**

Fiona didn't really sleep. Sleep implied rest and peacefulness. What she endured was hardly that, but rather a prolonged unconsciousness filled with half-realized images of great dragons swooping down at her, teeth bared and talons stretched – fearsome ogres, blood drooling from the corners of their mouths, one hand reaching for her while the other held a butcher knife at the ready – her parents, their benevolent faces smiling down at her, then suddenly morphing into snarling jackals – a group of armed, leering bandits, their vile intentions written on their faces, slowing closing in on her, but then suddenly parting as a stunningly handsome prince appeared, a halo glowing above his head. He held out a beautiful bouquet of red roses to her, but as she reached for them, they all suddenly turned black and then wilted to the side, revealing what had been hidden at their center: a long shiny dagger, which the prince drew back and swung at her side—

Fiona awoke with a gasp and automatically reached for her wound. Her hand slapped down upon some sort of cloth bandage.

"Careful, lass, I just finished dressing that," a female voice – tinged with a Scottish brogue – rebuked her.

Fiona's head began to clear and she realized that she was lying on some sort of bed. She turned toward the voice as her vision focused. For a moment she thought she was looking into a warped mirror – but then she realized that, sitting on a stool beside her, was an ogress. She was an older ogress, with graying hair so scraggly that Fiona wondered if it had ever felt a comb or brush, her rotund form clothed in a light gray dress with faded toadstool prints. The dress had seen better days, as had its owner; the ogress's face was careworn with crow's feet around the eyes and other creases indicating she had done much more frowning than smiling through what Fiona assumed were her many years – such as the frown that adorned her jowly green face now as her alert eyes studied Fiona.

"Who…where…" Fiona stammered.

"My name's Moyre," the older ogress replied. "Groyl's wife. You two've met, I believe?" Without moving her eyes from Fiona, she nodded her head slightly to indicate past one shoulder. Fiona followed the gesture to see Groyl, arms crossed, leaning against a nearby wall. He nodded to Fiona, a gentle smile on his lips.

"And this," Moyre added, indicating with a wave of her hand, "is our home. Or at least our bedroom."

Fiona looked about her. She was lying on a somewhat lumpy, roughly king-sized mattress (or it would have been king-sized if it were for humans; for these two, it was more like a twin) stuffed with what a sniff from her acute nostrils told her was some sort of moss. The bedroom itself was just large enough for two people – well, ogres – to move about in without constantly bumping into each other. The walls were constructed of what looked to be a clay and sandstone daubing, with an unevenly cut window through which Fiona saw (thank Heavens) that it was still dark. There was one door made of clumsily cut boards. Above her the ceiling was made of tight thatching, and beside her on an obviously home-made nightstand stood a gourd with a lit, irregularly shaped candle stuck in it which provided the room's lighting. The candle was of some sort of wax she couldn't identify and it gave off a peculiar smell. Actually, Fiona found her heightened olfactory sense inundated by a number of odors – from the candle, from the mattress, from the fungus she noted growing in a couple of corners, and from the ogres themselves. Altogether, the combination smelled… homey.

_Homey?_ That didn't make sense. It was the contrary of what Fiona knew she _should_ be feeling. And yet…Fiona shook her head. Another side-effect of that blasted curse. She looked down at her body. A dark, rough woolen blanket covered her from the waist down. Her midriff was encircled by the light cloth that made up the bandage and held the fresh dressing in place over her wound. Her chest and shoulders were covered by some sort of loose-fitting, brown leather halter top, cut off just above the bandage and below her bosom. Her arms were bare. She gently touched the compact dressing over the wound. "What…" she began, but there were so many things she wanted to ask she wasn't sure which should complete the sentence.

"Ah, a girl of few words. I like that," Moyre said sardonically. "In short, lass, my kind-hearted husband here brought you home. You were in rather dire straights, what with your side in the shape it was in. We changed your clothes and took care of ministering t'your wound."

Fiona's eyes flashed to Groyl reflexively. "You…did _what?_" she asked.

He held his hands out defensively. "Whoa, now, that's not quite what it sounds like!" he said. "I just carried yeh onto the bed. My better half here took care'ah the clothing part. I stayed in the living room during that. Honest!"

"Oh," Fiona said, blushing. She felt almost overwhelmed with confusion. These two creatures had done her a great service. Yet she was so completely ignorant of their culture. How was she to express gratitude, or even begin to repay them…and what would they expect? She decided to begin with the simplest thing, hope it was proper and sufficient, and wing it from there. So she said shyly, "Um…thank you."

"No need to thank us, lass" Moyre said. "After all, it's ogre law that when one of our own is in trouble and we're aware of it, we're obliged to help. Right?"

"Um, yes, right! Of course!" Fiona said. "Still…thank you."

Moyre waved dismissively. "We just had to suppurate the wound and apply the proper salves and herbs."

"_Suppurate?_" Fiona repeated, surprised an ogre would know such a word.

"Yes, we drained the seepage and ate it as part of our supper," Moyre responded matter-of-factly, her face completely serious.

Fiona blinked. Then she had to swallow. "Uh…really?" she said.

One corner of Moyre's mouth turned up in a half grin, half grimace. She then turned briefly to Groyl. "I _told_ you she wasn't a real ogre," she said, then turned back to Fiona, the older ogress's expression now even more stern. "All right, lass. It's pretty obvious from your ignorance and the clothes you were wearing, right down to the fancy human lady's underthings, that you're not a natural ogre. Who are you, why were you fighting a dragon, how did you receive that wound, and how did you end up in the skin of an ogre?"

Fiona blushed. Her heart started beating faster. She considered trying to escape, but between her physical condition, the presence of two ogres, and the claustrophobically enclosed room, she didn't know where to go. Then she realized fully what Moyre had said. "Wait a minute," Fiona asked, "how did you know I was fighting a dragon?"

Moyre sighed. "You have the smell of brimstone, your clothes have a few old burn marks, and the sword that my husband was good enough to retrieve for yeh was scorched."

Behind them, Groyl snapped his fingers. "Say," he said, "you weren't trying to rescue that princess locked in that tower by any chance, were yeh?"

Fiona gave him a surprised look. He shrugged and said, "Hey, we value our privacy, but we're not _total_ recluses, y'know. That's just a silly myth."

Fiona blinked. It was uncomfortably startling how much these…creatures…were able to deduce about her from so little, far beyond what she would have given them credit for. But then she started to think. The deduction from smell…that _was_ basically just extrapolation on an enhanced animal sense, not much better, really, than a bloodhound. And the undergarments…that _was_ a bit of a giveaway; they being of such better quality than the primitive apparel than these two wore and had now foisted upon her. As to Groyl's speculation about to her identity…ironically wrong, but a bit too close for comfort…was it really hubris for her to think that wasn't that much of a stretch, given the fame that had led so many to their deaths?

"_Well?_" Moyre insisted, looking even more irritated…and imposing.

"Well…I…um…" Fiona stammered, her mind whirling, trying to think up a believable lie.

"_ANSWER ME!_" Moyre bellowed, leaning close enough to Fiona for the princess to smell the fetid stench of breath expelled between the large, uneven teeth of the grimace that the older ogress's face now bore.

Confused and more than a bit frightened, Fiona blurted out, "I _am_ the princess from the tower!" She immediately bit her lip and held her breath, fearful of what might come next.

But Moyre's grimace morphed into a tight little smile. She leaned back and, glancing back at Groyl, said, "See? All we had to do was ask nicely."

Groyl nodded, then a look of realization dawned upon his face. "Of course!" he exclaimed. "She said her name was 'Prin'. Obviously short for 'Princess'!" He whacked himself in the side of the head. "Why didn't I think of that b'fore?"

"Maybe that's the easterly wing of your family coming through," Moyre suggested.

"Bite your tongue, woman!" Groyl snapped. But his eyes bore a twinkle and a grin played at his lips – an expression that Moyre returned.

"Huh?" Fiona said, still trying to get the bearings of her situation.

Moyre waved a hand dismissively. "That branch of my better half's family...they're decent enough blokes and all, and they mean well, but they tend to be…well…a bit shallow in the gene pool, shall we say. So if yeh ever happen across any other ogres that look like Groyl, dearie, and they act a little odd…well, don't say you weren't warned."

Then Moyre's expression, which had softened for a moment, suddenly resumed its hard edge as her eyes again bore into Fiona. "So what happened to yeh?" she demanded. "Get on the wrong side of a witch?"

Fiona's eyes opened wide. "How…how did you know a witch did this?"

Moyre's eyes rolled. "Well, I assume you didn't ask some fairy godmother to be turned into an ogre, did yeh? It's not the kinda thing human girls normally do."

"Well…no," Fiona admitted.

"Then what did yeh do?"

"Nothing! I didn't do anything!" Fiona insisted. When she saw Moyre skeptically cock an eyebrow, she added, "At least nothing I know of. You see, I've been this way as long as I can remember." She sighed, then again recited the despised words that were scarred into her memory. "'_By night one way, by day another, this shall be the norm. Until you find true love's first kiss…and then, take love's true form_.'"

Moyre chuckled. "Very cute little rhyme," she said. "So you're gonna turn human again at dawn, I take it."

Fiona nodded meekly. At least she wouldn't have to worry about hiding _that_ little revelation any longer.

"Pity," Moyre said. "And yeh don't remember your life b'fore that spell?"

Fiona shook her head.

"Then how the blazes do yeh remember the spell itself?" Moyre asked pointedly. "Did the witch wipe your memory, too?"

"No, I…never heard the words," Fiona said.

"Come again?" Moyre asked with the tenacity of a district attorney finding a flaw in a defendant's testimony.

"I was too young," Fiona said defensively. "My father told me what she said!"

"_Ah-ha!_" Moyre declared triumphantly, "So your _father's_ the one that ticked off the witch!"

"No! I mean…maybe. I…I just don't know."

"What? That little detail never came up?"

"He said she was an evil witch. And…and I figured that's all I needed to know."

"You weren't curious about her reason?"

"What reason? She was a witch! That's just the type of thing that witches do!"

"Oi," Moyre sighed, leaning back. "You're human, all right."

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?" Fiona responded, her irritation at the slight overriding her fear of the situation.

"It means that your presumptions about witches – like your presumptions about ogres – is just plain typical of your whole bigoted species!"

"Oh, right," Fiona sneered. "And _your_ comment just now wasn't bigoted against humans?"

"_I've_ got reasons!" Moyre shot back.

"Like _what?_"

Moyre stared daggers at Fiona for several seconds, breathing heavily. Fiona, who had felt her own blood rising, suddenly started to feel fearful again. When Moyre suddenly rose to a standing position and leaned over her bed, Fiona shrank back.

But Moyre simply reached up with one hand and pulled down a sleeve, exposing a nasty spot of disfigured flesh on her shoulder. "See _that?_" she demanded.

Fiona nodded obediently.

"Villager's torch," Moyre said. She then turned back to Groyl and nodded toward his torso. "Show her," she said.

"Moyre, I don't think—" he began to protest.

"_Show her!_" Moyre demanded.

Groyl sighed, then pulled up his shirt far enough to expose a row of four puckered circular scars across his abdomen. "Pitchfork," he said to Fiona, somewhat apologetically. When he saw her ashen expression, he smiled consolingly and added with a wink, "But you should see the _other_ guys."

"So yeh see, dearie," Moyre said, turning back to Fiona. "_We've_ got reasons." Then gesturing to Fiona's side, she said, "And speaking of wounds, how did yeh get _that?_ I'm guessing it wasn't by witch or ogre _or_ dragon. What happen, some human mistake yeh for a _real_ ogre?"

"No," Fiona answered uncomfortably. "He knew _exactly_ who I was."

"Really?" Moyre asked, curious. "Who was it, now?"

Fiona hesitated. She had not intended to reveal so much of herself, but in the heat of the moment—

"_Answer me!_" Moyre growled.

"An agent of my father," Fiona almost spat. "Sent to assassinate me."

Moyre's jaw slacked, a surprised expression on her face. Fiona grinned despondently and almost chuckled. She had finally found a way to shut the older ogress up.

"What?" Groyl said with a shocked expression that turned angry as he growled, "why the devil would he want to do that?"

Fiona shook her own head, then found she had to choke back tears as she said, "He…I…I'm not sure. I…guess he…well, I know he hated what I was…what I _am_…at night. I think I…disgusted him."

"But what about this 'true love's kiss' thing?" he asked.

Fiona shrugged. "Maybe he got tired of waiting," she said. "I'd been in there for years. So many already died…" she trailed off, closed her eyes, swallowed, then opened her eyes and continued. "So many knights died, and the situation dragged on for so long…I guess he thought it would be better just to…end everyone's misery. Besides, I tried kissing that bandit, and nothing happened. I'm starting to think maybe that was a myth. A lie. Like so many other fairy tales I believed."

Groyl shook his head, disgust in his own face. "What a monster," he said. "It's bad enough that he didn't move heaven and earth to rescue you when that dragon stole you and took you to that tower—"

"The dragon didn't steal me," she said.

"_What?_" both ogres said, surprised.

Fiona shook her head, and then explained, "It was my parents who arranged for me to be locked in the tower. It was part of the plan to rid me of my curse." She paused, looking over the ogres' faces, both of them looking at her with bewildered expressions. Then her own expression turned cold and stony as she let her gaze drift toward a cob-webbed corner as she added cynically, "At least, that's what they told me."

"They _locked_ you in a _tower?_" Groyl said, his voice still reflecting astonishment. "Your own parents just left their little girl in a dragon-guarded castle?"

"They said it was for my own good," Fiona said reflexively, even while realizing she didn't believe it any longer.

"And the humans say _we're_ cruel for sending our kids off to make their own way at such a young age," Moyre said bitterly. "But Fiona, at least tell us you offed the blaggard who did this to your side."

Fiona continued to stare at the corner. A lone tear ran spilled from her eye and began running down her cheek, but her voice was a low monotone as she replied, "No, I didn't. I…couldn't. I faked my death, and I think I fooled him. But I can't be sure. I should leave here. You've already been too kind. If I'm found here by him or another of my father's agents it might endanger you—"

"None of it!" Moyre said, and Fiona felt her take her hand. The princess looked down to see the ogress's pudgy green fingers entwining her own. "We take care'ah our own. You're not setting foot off our land until you're recovered."

"But…I'm _not_ one of your own," Fiona said. "As you noted, I'm not a 'real' ogre."

Moyre waved that objection aside with her free hand. "Tosh," she said. "If you're close enough to rile the ire of bandits and the revulsion of nobility, you're close enough for us."

Moyre actually smiled at her. A genuine smile, without a hint of skepticism or irony. Fiona looked up and saw the same expression on Groyl's face.

Fiona's mouth worked wordlessly for a moment. She hadn't expected this turn. Finally, she almost choked out, "I don't know what to say—"

"No need t'say anything right now, dearie," Moyre said, now patting her hand. "Actually, a change of pace might be good for us. Contrary to what you might hear, we ogres _do_ get lonely on occasion. Besides, you're about the age…"

This time it was Moyre's turn to trail off. She bit her lip and looked away, and Fiona thought she saw her bat back the glint of a tear.

"What's wrong, Moyre?" Fiona asked, stunned.

Groyl stepped forward and gently laid a hand on his wife's shoulder. He looked at Fiona and said softly, "You're about the age our daughter would be if we'd had one. We…never had children."

"We _should_ have," Moyre said bitterly, still looking away. This time she reached up and violently wiped away a tear, then wiped her nose, apparently irritated at herself. "I still say we were cursed somehow."

"Perhaps," Groyl said. "But who, how or why we don't know."

"Why do you think you were cursed?" Fiona asked, both concerned now for the ogres and guiltily relieved that she was no longer the brunt of interrogation.

"Because I _was_ pregnant, blast it!" Moyre said. "Then, one day – a day near the time of delivery, I'm sure – I just wasn't. I woke up that morning, and I was no longer with child. And then I never…we never…"

"Never had a child," Groyl said softly, and then laid his other hand on his wife's other shoulder and rubbed them. Then he leaned over and said softly, trying to break her distress, "But t'wern't for lack of trying, eh?" and then he kissed her softly on the top of her head.

Moyre half choked, half chuckled, and laid her free hand on one of his. "We…uh…even had names picked out," she said, visibly pulling herself back together. Chaleria if it was female, and Shreklecheh if it was male."

"Although we'd probably end up just calling him 'Shrek'," Groyl said.

"Bite your tongue," Moyre said, turning to look up at her husband. But Fiona saw there was a genuine smile on her face. "Shreklecheh is a fine name."

Actually, Fiona thought the name sounded rather absurd, and its shortened form not much better. 'Shrek'? Seriously? Why did ogres pick such silly names? But for the sake of her hosts she said, "I agree. I think Shreklecheh is a wonderful name," and squeezed Moyre's hand with hers.

Moyre looked at Fiona and smiled. "Thank you, child," Moyre said, and again took Fiona's hand in both of hers. Then Fiona reached over with her other hand and laid that on top.

"Oh, and Fiona," Groyl said, laying one of his huge hands atop the ogress's, "one thing you're gonna have to learn b'fore you go out on your own if yeh want to stay incognito. Yeh _really_ need to learn to lie better."

"Amen to that" Moyre said, and the ogres began laughing. Fiona blushed for a moment, and then joined them. It felt so good to laugh along with others. Ogres or not, it just felt good.

Almost like she belonged.


	18. Ever So Humble

**Layer 18: Ever So Humble**

Fiona opened her eyes, having finally had several hours of restful sleep…with no bad dreams.

Sunlight was streaming through the unevenly cut window, illuminating all those corners of the room that had seemed mysteriously dark the night before and showed them for the simple and innocuous (and dusty) recesses that they really were. She also noted several more stains on the walls.

Fiona lifted her arm and saw the light reflecting off of the pinkish flesh of her dainty human hand. Although she still felt some relief, instead of thanking Heaven for being back in her proper human form as she usually did, she sighed and shrugged.

Then she felt a much less magical part of nature calling.

"_Groyl? Moyre?_" she called herself. Several seconds of silence ensued, during which Fiona strained to catch any sounds and, so failing, cursed her inferior human hearing. "_Hey, anybody out there?_"

Some birds tweeted and cawed outside, but Fiona heard nothing from beyond the plain bamboo bead curtain that now awkwardly draped the bedroom door, giving her privacy. Well, she thought she could make out the scampering of little feet, but those would belong to a being much too small to be an ogre. Fiona's stomach growled, and she hoped that was due to the aroma of something cooking that wafted in from the room beyond the curtain rather than whatever vermin was attached to those feet. Whatever fat, juicy vermin—

Fiona shook her head. "Rats," she said, but then shook it again.

The princess frowned. Her body had priorities which could not wait for her hosts, food, or anything else. She swung one arm down and groped under the bed. After a moment of flailing it struck something round – or round-ish – and made of pottery. "Thank Heaven," Fiona said. "Civilization." A moment later she had pulled the vessel out from under the bed. Its finish was of unadorned beige clay and not the smooth, refined, illustrated glaze that she was used to in her rooms at home or even in the tower, and it was significantly larger than she was used to, but she recognized a chamber pot when she saw one.

She thanked Heaven again when she saw that it was empty.

Fiona carefully sat up in bed. Her wound still pained her at the effort, but already the intensity was dying. The wrapping – and the brown leather halter-top she had been dressed in – had magically shrunk to fit her human frame, just as the dresses she had worn would shrink and expand with her changes. Good to know.

Fiona took care of what she needed to and carefully slid the chamber pot back beneath the bed, taking a mental note to unload and clean it properly later – upon pain of gross embarrassment.

Fiona stood and stretched as best she could with her wound. Although the brown tunic covered her upper torso, she still only had her undergarment for her lower body. She looked around the room with some sense of urgency, lest puckish fate decide that this would be the ideal time for her hosts to show up. She didn't see any of the knightly clothing she had been wearing the night before, and almost cursed the ogres that they couldn't have left them in this room as logic would dictate – until she reminded herself that they could just as easily have left her and her outfit in the wilderness and saved themselves possible grief as logic would dictate.

There was one closet door. She opened it and found a couple of worn dresses and a pair of soiled shirts. She had been hoping for a robe of some sort, but there was none. She was not keen on wearing her hosts' regular clothes without their permission. Besides, they were all ogre-sized and much too large for her current dimensions.

There was one old dresser with chipped dull blue paint with a mirror which had a crack running in a rough catty-cornered track across its face. After a moment's hesitation, Fiona opened and looked through its two drawers. She found nothing but underthings which Fiona assumed belonged to Moyre; items that Fiona doubted would fit her even in her ogress state. She shut the drawers in frustration and stood for a moment with her hands on the dresser top. She cast her eyes upward and her gaze alit on her human reflection; even her chopped, unkempt hair couldn't distract from the beautiful features gazing back at her. One side of her mouth curled into a sardonic half-grin. "Mirror, mirror, with the crack," she said. "Who's the fairest in this shack?"

She chuckled mirthlessly and then looked back down and noted an old wooden comb sitting on the dresser top. She picked it up and noticed that about half its teeth were missing. She chuckled again and ran the comb through her hair several times, with only minor success in straightening it. She tossed the comb back on the dresser top.

She looked around again and her eyes fell upon a folded cloth draped over the back of the chair that Moyre had been sitting in the previous night. Fiona picked it up and unfurled it. It appeared to be some sort of ogre-sized shawl, of a plaid design of alternating dark and darker green with thin black and white perpendicular lines connecting and completing the tartan pattern. Appropriate, Fiona thought with another little half-grin, given her hosts' accents. Its sides were not finished and were somewhat frayed, but it would suffice. She wrapped it about her waist just below her wound. It was long enough that it left no gaps, and it fell just around her knees. "That'll work," she said, with some sense of self-satisfaction. "If only I could find something to secure it with. A pin or something…"

Fiona's eyes drifted to the nightstand. Atop it sat the gutted remains of that candle with the odd wax. She frowned, embarrassed that she had cost them an entire candle in addition to all the other trouble she was making. She recalled the night before, just after the ogres had bid her goodnight and were taking their leave, Moyre picked up the candle and was about to blow it out. Fiona had felt an odd pang of panic. "Moyre!" she called. "Wait!"

The older ogress paused, almost in mid-breath. "Yes, lass?" she said.

"Would you mind…leaving the candle lit?" Fiona asked.

Moyre looked down at her, puzzled. Fiona felt herself blush, and wondered if it showed through her green skin. "I just…I know it doesn't make sense…but…" Fiona didn't now how to finish. How could she explain to the ogress that, after having received such kindness and finding a haven that felt so…so right, that she had been seized with a sudden, irrational fear that if she were plunged into darkness that the next moment she would awaken, alone again, back in that dreadful tower?

But Fiona didn't have to explain. Moyre's featured softened and she smiled. "It's aw'right, lass," Moyre said, gently putting the candle back down on the nightstand. "Blow it out when you're ready. Or not. Don't worry, tis no great loss. It's made of…what y'might call a renewable resource."

Moyre's smile was oddly both warm and impish. She leaned down and stroked the side of Fiona's hair. She looked at Fiona benignly, and paused there with one huge hand laid comfortingly beside the youngster's head. Then Moyre's gaze changed somewhat. Her expression remained calm and benign, but instead of focusing on Fiona, the princess suddenly felt as if Moyre was looking – through her? No, _past_ her, as if recalling – or imagining – someone else. Someone else who was there in her place. Or who had been in her place. Or perhaps should have been in her place.

Fiona reached up and placed her own plump hand on Moyre's. The contact seemed to break the older ogress's brief reverie. Moyre blinked a couple of times, offered another warm smile, said, "G'night, lass," and then, after a playful pinch of Fiona's amble cheek, slid her hand from Fiona's face, stood, turned, and hurried from the room…but not before Fiona caught what she thought was a glint of a tear in her aged eye.

Fiona had lain there after Moyre had left, wondering what might have affected her so, and wondering if there was anything she could do to help. Fiona's hand stayed on her own cheek, as if holding the warm touch of Moyre's caress in place. To feel such a caring touch of another living being after so long...the last time she recalled such a moment was so many years ago, being tucked in by her own mother—

Fiona's jaw tightened and her eyes shut. Best not start dredging up those memories, lest the pain that they would undoubtedly summon would drive her back into depression. Instead her eyes opened, and she found herself starting back at the candle, with its warm, flickering, reassuring light. Fiona smiled, and shortly thereafter her eyes closed again as sleep enveloped her.

Fiona blinked, and then shook her head. "Concentrate, Princess," she chided herself. "Here and now." She saw no pins on the top of the nightstand. But it had a second shelf. There were no pins there, either, but she did see a wound-up belt of some sort. She reached down, picked it up, and unwound it. Yes, it was a long belt, some four or five inches wide, and made of some sort of brown leather. No, it was scaled, like snakeskin. And there was a large, awkward iron buckle. She wrapped the belt around her waste atop the shawl, tightened it, and then fidgeted with the heavy buckle until she figured out how to latch it. Then she lifted her hands away from her sides and looked down at her make-shift skirt.

"Oh, no, not _skirt_. T'would be a _kilt_, lass," Fiona said in a mock brogue, and snickered at her own joke. She shook her hips as hard as she could without causing pain and then did a brief squat. The 'skirt' stayed in place. Fiona checked her reflection in the mirror, nodded, and then patted the side of the belt. "That'll do, Princess," she muttered to herself with some satisfaction at her resourcefulness. "That'll do."

Then she saw that there was another object on the nightstand's second shelf that the belt had been sitting atop. It was a worn, dog-eared book of some sort, with a plain green cover bare except for the title lettering. Fiona picked it up and looked at the title. _Fifty Shades of Green_, it read. Interesting. So it appeared that ogres had their bedside storybooks, too. After what she had experienced over the past day, Fiona was now only mildly surprised. She wondered what sort of morality tales the book might contain. She would have to check it out later; she might learn something.

Her stomach growled again. Fiona looked down at her slim tummy and smirked. "Yes, I know. First things first," she said, laying the book back on its shelf. Then she turned and walked through the bead curtain.

Fiona paused in the doorway. She saw no ogres. "Groyl? Moyre?" she called again, but heard no answer. Her hosts were obviously out. She paused for a few moments to gaze at the den before her.

She wasn't sure what she was expecting, but this wasn't it.

There was one great room. Its dimensions were not square, or even rectangular. They were more…circular, but not quite. She was finding that the house had a noticeable lack of pure shapes or angles. The walls were made of the same daubing as in the bedroom, and were framed by plain, wooden, irregularly shaped boards. Boards? They looked more like the branches of trees. Speaking of trees, she saw that the fireplace where a cauldron housed some sort of bubbling stew was itself constructed of a tree trunk. She wondered for a moment of the logistics of getting it through the door when she realized that it had not been _cut_ from a tree – the tree itself was still in place. Looking up, she saw what she thought looked like branches converging to make the roof, and realized that instead of branches, they were roots.

Her curiosity pricked, she headed out the door – itself an odd construct of planks that was not cut rectangularly but had one corner angled to a slant – and into the 'courtyard' of a swamp. A very nice swamp, though. A carpet of lush green grasses laid about her, which felt warm and springy beneath her bare feet. Beyond the carpet there was a border of taller grasses, and beyond that were the trees of the forest where Fiona presumed Groyl had found her. After she took a few steps she turned and looked back at the house. It was, indeed, built into the base of what had been a large tree. Some twenty feet up or so the top had broken off, and it now apparently served as a chimney as she could see some tendrils of smoke drifting from it. One corner of Fiona's mouth curled into a smile and she shook her head in wonder. Did all ogres' homes look like this? She would more likely have expected a hole in the ground.

She looked around a bit. There was one small wooden building a few yards off to the side with a crescent moon carved into its door, and a well-worn path connecting it to the front of the house. It confused her for a few moments, so she wandered over to it, carefully opened the door and looked in. "Oh," she said. Well, now she knew where to dispose of the contents of her chamber pot later.

She noted a couple of other paths leading off toward the woods. She was curious about those also, but then her stomach growled again. Her thoughts returned to the bubbling stew in the cauldron, and so she made her way back into the house.

Once back inside, she paused again to look more closely at the main room's contents. Near the fireplace there was a plain wooden dining table about four by eight feet with four large but basically designed wooden chairs around it. At one end of the table a chessboard was set up; this was yet another surprise, as she would hardly think such a game would appeal to ogres. An easy chair upholstered with snakeskin and a rocking chair sat beside each other along one wall. There was one shelf stacked with books, a recess where a cupboard held various dishes, cups and mugs, and one wall where cooking utensils hung. Set against another wall was a long, worn sofa, with a rug sat in front of it. Although rustic in the extreme, the place appeared surprisingly tidy, except for crumpled blankets lying on the sofa and on the rug beside it. But a moment later Fiona realized the reason for that. There were no other bedrooms. The ogres had let her sleep in their bed, while they themselves slept out here on the sofa and on the floor. She blushed in embarrassment.

She also saw her coat of mail, armor and sword sitting in another recess.

Sighing, she moved toward the cauldron. She looked down into the stew of bubbling white…liquid? No, thicker than that, more like porridge than stew; with pieces of some sort of meet that bobbed across its surface. The smell was heavenly, and she felt herself start salivating. Fiona felt even more beholden; the ogres had obviously gone out of their way to cook something palatable to human tastes. She knew she should wait for her hosts to return, but her stomach growled again, and the thought of digging into fresh, hot food proved too much to resist.

Fiona carefully pulled an earthen bowl from the cupboard and cast about for an appropriately sized spoon, but the smallest she could find was a wooden spoon with about the capacity of two tablespoons. She shrugged, and ladled in several spoonfuls into her bowl. When it was near full, she held the steaming mixture up near her nose and inhaled deeply, then closed her eyes. "Mmmmm," she said, smiling in anticipation. Then she opened her eyes and took a seat at the table by the chess set, plopping her bowl in front of herself. She took a small amount onto the spoon, blew on it, touched it to her lips to test the temperature, and then took a bite. "_Mmmmm!_" she said again, even more loudly than before. "This is _really_ good!"

The food had whetted her thirst, and she looked about and noted a chipped water pitcher sitting by a basin on a table beneath a window. She filled a mug with water and resumed her seat.

As she began eating more spoonfuls – well, _half_-spoonfuls – of the porridge, she examined the chess pieces more carefully. They were obviously hand-carved, but showed surprising detail. The 'white' pieces were actually left in their natural light beige color, while the black pieces had been painted. Likewise the board itself was of a not-quite-square piece of wood, with the 64-square outline engraved atop it, with lines not quite straight in some places, and then every other square painted black with apparently the same paint used for the black pieces – and which ran slightly over the lines in some areas. Fiona chuckled at the result. The two sides were already aligned in their proper starting rows – they even had the queens set to their correct colored squares – with the white side facing Fiona.

As Fiona neared the end of her bowl, she idly touched a few of the pieces. She had a book on chess strategy among her little library in the tower, and had even created a small cut-out set that she used to play herself in solitaire matches sometimes. Out of curiosity, she had even used chess to test her human mind against her ogress mind, alternating moves, once per daylight hours and once per nighttime, to see if the change adversely affected her thinking abilities as she assumed would happen in her beastly form. She played a few such games, which of course took several days to complete – alas, she had the time – but despite her hypothesis, she found the ogress and human were equally adept at the game. But she then rationalized that she already had the moves thought out ahead of time – plus, it was just further proof that she wasn't a _real_ ogre.

The bowl emptied, Fiona crossed her arms and stared down at the board for a while, contemplating first the board, then her situation. "I guess I'm lucky, finding these…this couple to take me in and show me such hospitality," she mused. Then her attention returned to the board. After a few more moments she reached forward and pushed one of the white pawns forward two squares, and then stared at the empty chair across from her. "Your move," she said, and snickered.

Fiona then rose, walked around the end of the table, and took the seat in the chair behind the black row. She looked down at the board from that perspective for a moment, and then commented, "You think so? You really think that their motives are pure, do you? Haven't the events of the past couple of days taught you anything about trusting people…let alone ogres?" She then moved one of the black pawns forward a space.

Fiona sighed. Then she rose, walked back around the end of the table, and seated herself back behind the white side. After a moment staring down at the board, she said, "Ogres or not, they've shown nothing but kindness. Groyl didn't have to save me from the robbers. Or Moyre tend my wound. If they meant me harm, why would they do that?" She then moved another white pawn up one space.

She again rose and resumed her seat behind the black pieces. "Since they _are_ ogres, perhaps they thought you'd make a nice snack," she suggested, moving a black knight out from the back row.

Fiona continued alternating seats as she played the game, and debated with herself.

"If they wanted to do that, then they've had plenty of opportunity. Why wait?" she challenged from the white side.

"Ever hear of Hansel and Gretel?" she responded from the black side, with a nod toward the cauldron of porridge.

"No. I can't believe that. Besides, why would they leave me alone, unrestrained, if that was their plan?"

"Why leave you? Maybe instead of having you for dinner, they've gone to turn you in to your father's henchmen. I'd wager you're worth some sort of reward."

"That still doesn't explain why they would leave me unrestrained if they had malign intentions."

"Perhaps this swamp itself is a prison. You don't really know where you are, do you? If you set out into that wilderness, my pristine Highness, how long do you think these beasts would take to track you down?"

"If that's the case, then why even bother trying to escape? By your cynical logic, I'm dead either way."

"Not necessarily," the dark-side Fiona said, nodding toward the sword in the corner. "When the practicality of flight has been removed, that still leaves one option."

"An option that will not be necessary," Fiona responded from the white side. "Why would they leave such a weapon unguarded? No. I…trust these people."

"These _beasts_?"

"Very well, then. Yes, these beasts."

"Even when your own parents betrayed your trust? Do you believe you can trust monsters when you couldn't even trust your own blood? Is that what you really believe?"

Fiona contemplated for a moment. "I believe…" she began. Then paused, thought some more, sighed, and said, "I believe I'll have some more of that porridge." She picked up her bowl, stood, began to turn toward the fireplace, and then stopped. "Oh, and by the way," she said, turning back to the chessboard. She moved her guarded queen forward, captured a pawn from before her opponent's king, and said, "Checkmate." She smiled, looked at the empty chair, and said, "Care for another game?"

A scarecrow stood in a cornfield, its lumpy straw-stuffed body held up by a rotting wooden post. The smiling face painted upon the burlap sack that made up its head stared unblinkingly forward. Then, from the distance, the tall ears of corn began to part. The parting wave moved steadily forward until the ears from just before the scarecrow parted to reveal a tall, ugly, green ogre carrying a burlap sack of its own, albeit much larger. The scarecrow screamed, leapt off of its post, and ran with awkward, panicked strides away through the rows.

Groyl rolled his eyes. "Oy," he said. "That's just _so_ predictable." He looked back behind him to where Moyre stood, examining a large ear of corn for imperfections before plucking it and dropping it into her own sack. Both ogres' sacks were nearly full. "Tell me why we're doing this again?"

"B'cause a lotta the food we eat's poison to humans, and might kill Fiona if she eats it while she's in that form. I thought you understood that b'fore we started."

"No, I mean, why're we going t'all this trouble for her?" Groyl said. "Can't we just patch'er up and send her on her way? We've gathered 'nuff vegetables for a month."

"Why're _you_ in such a hurry to be rid of her?" Moyre countered, and then cocking a bemused eyebrow said, "Seemed to me you found her a bit attractive, no?"

Groyl blushed. "Well, I confess, she's not bad, if on the shrimpy side. Only a tad over six feet, and maybe twenty stone. Nothing compared to _you_, m'dear."

This time it was Moyre's turn to blush. "Y'always were a sweet talker, y'old lump," she said.

They chuckled and smiled at each other, but then Groyl's smile faded and he said, "She's not ours, y'know."

Moyre's smile also faded. She fidgeted uncomfortably for a moment, and then said, "I don't know what you mean."

"Sure yeh do," he said. "I've seen it in your eyes. She's about the right age for our child. The one that wasn't born."

Moyre shrugged. "Is she? Well, I s'pose she is." Her gaze lowered self-consciously to the ground.

Groyl stepped forward and placed a hand gently against her shoulder. "She's not ours, Moyre. She can't be. She b'longs to an entirely different world. A world of humans. And not just humans, it's a world of kings and princes and royalty and customs and beliefs that just don't fit with the things we believe and value. Some of those differences are things we find abhorrent in each other. We can't…adopt her into a life that she'd despise. T'wouldn't be fair to her…or us."

Moyre continued staring down at the ground for a moment, and then looked back up at Groyl. "I understand that," she conceded. "But for now, she needs a place to stay, until she gets better and feels safe to move on."

"Aye, and that we'll give her," Groyl said. "But don't get your hopes up that we'll…connect on anything but the most basic things. Remember, despite her nighttime appearance, inside she's only human."

Moyre nodded. "I know. It's just that…something I thought I saw'n her last night…but you're right, I guess I was just…romanticizing."

Groyl's expression hardened a bit. "A human trait," he said. "And one we can't afford. It's a cold, hard world for our kind, my sweet, and we need to keep that in mind, every day."

Moyre nodded. "Agreed," she sighed resignedly. "But some days're harder than others."

Groyl's face softened into a sad smile. He reached up and nudged her chin. "Buck up," he said, then turned to the pole and hung a small sack of coins on the rusted nail that had held the scarecrow; coins amounting to the estimated value of the goods they had picked. "Now let's go home and see what our guest looks like in her _real_ form."

"Probably twig thin and pretty as a button, like all those other blasted fairy tale princesses," Moyre said, wrinkling her nose. Then, as they began walking together down a path between corn row back toward their home, she forced a chuckle and said, "If she starts singing to some blasted woodland animals, I'm gonna slap her silly."

"Now, that's more like it," Groyl said, his smile warming as he nudged her arm playfully, nearly knocking her over. She nudged him back a little harder, then he pushed her hard, knocking her down into the corn as he took off running down the path, laughing. Moyre also began laughing, pulling out a potato and throwing it at him, cocking him in the head as she began running after him, both ogres now laughing playfully.

When Groyl opened the door to their home and stepped in with his wife, both he and Moyre stopped short when they saw the human female sitting at the table, propped up on her elbows with a half-empty bowl of porridge sitting between them. She stared, engrossed with the chessboard upon which a game was in progress, and she didn't notice the ogres at first. Still staring at the board, she scooped up a spoonful of porridge and ladled it into her mouth. It left a 'moustache' of the food clinging to her upper lip, which she unconsciously wiped off with the back of her wrist. After she swallowed, she let out a long, loud burp. She then reached for a mug of water and gulped the remainder of its contents down…at which point she noted the ogres standing just inside the doorway.

"Oh!" Fiona exclaimed, startled. Then, blushing, "Um…good morning! I…uh…well, I was a little hungry this morning. I hope you don't mind me going ahead and eating some of your porridge. It's delicious! It hit the spot…just right!"

"Really?" Moyre said as she and Groyl looked at each other and exchanged quizzical expressions. Then they looked back at Fiona and Moyre continued, "Well, we were just out gathering veggies to make yeh something we thought yeh could eat in…this form." She then led Groyl to an alcove that served as a pantry of sorts where they laid their sacks.

"You were?" Fiona said, confused. "But…but this was great!"

Moyre and Groyl turned back to Fiona. "It's an honor t'meet you…your Highness," Moyre said with a little grin, and gave a mock curtsey.

"Huh? Oh!" Fiona said, looking down at her human body. "Please don't do that. I'm basically the same person, just in my true form."

"True form, eh?" Moyre said with a reflective expression that made Fiona's brow furrow in confusion.

"Are yeh feeling aw'right?" Groyl asked Fiona with some concern.

"Why, yes," Fiona said. "The side still hurts, but that wound treatment of yours did wonders!"

"But you're feeling aw'right in your head…in your stomach?"

"Well, I'm feeling a bit full," Fiona said, blushing again as she patted her slightly extended belly. "I'm working on a third bowl."

Groyl turned to Moyre, confusion in his face, but Moyre continued looking at Fiona. "Y'know what," she said. "We've got something better t'wash that down with than water," then turned and went over to a shelf that held a tall unmarked bottle. As she took the bottle down and pulled out two other mugs Groyl approached her.

"Are yeh mad, woman?" he whispered in her ear. "She'll never handle that as a human."

"She shouldn't have handled the porridge, either," Moyre whispered back, "considering the ingredients. Fungus? Tree rot? Stink bugs? The smell alone should'a kept her from even entering this room. And she ate it up. Literally. And did yeh see the way she was acting when she wasn't paying attention to herself?"

"So? A lotta humans are slobs when nobody's looking."

"Even princesses?"

"Who knows? Have _you_ ever seen other princesses when they're alone?" Groyl paused, and then whispered, "Don't get your hopes up, Moyre. She's _not_ an ogre."

"Well, let's give ourselves – and Fiona – a chance to discover just _what_ she is, shall we, and not judge her b'fore we get to t'know her?"

Before Groyl could respond, Moyre turned back around, one hand holding the bottle and the other holding two empty mugs, and said, "Here's a little something that we ogres find…refreshing. Perhaps you might do so, too." She looked beside her to see Groyl staring at her with barely hidden displeasure. "Groyl, dear, why don't yeh go have a seat at the table? That's a good man."

Groyl gave his wife one more chiding glance as he strode over and took the seat opposite Fiona. Moyre took a seat beside the princess. "Here yeh go, lass," she said as she filled Fiona's mug with the contents of the bottle. Fiona took the mug and smelled it curiously as Moyre filled Groyl's mug and then her own.

"What is this?" Fiona asked.

"Ograrian ale," Moyre replied. "It would be like…let's see, what would it be similar to for you humans…champagne!"

Groyl almost choked as he held back a guffaw. Moyre shot him a visual rebuke of her own, but Fiona's attention was on the contents of the mug. "I've never had champagne, or any alcohol. I was just a child when they…imprisoned me. And they didn't leave any in the tower."

"Well, you're a big girl now," Moyre said. Then she held up her mug. "To a full recuperation and a safe and happy stay!"

Fiona tentatively touched her mug to Moyre's, and then Groyl reluctantly touched his mug to the other two.

As the two ogres lifted their mugs to their mouths and began drinking – keeping their eyes on Fiona as they did so – Fiona stared at the contents of her mug a moment longer, then lifted it to her own lips. She began sipping…but instead of lowering the mug she lifted it higher, taking a few gulps until it was half drained. She then lowered it and set it on the table with a thump.

Fiona coughed for a moment, and then choked out, "Oh, my! Is _that_ what champagne is like?"

"Are yeh feeling a'right?" Groyl asked, examining her expression almost clinically.

"Why, yes," Fiona said, catching her breath. "Just fine. That…ale, did you call it?...did burn a bit going down. And I feel a little…light-headed. But not in a bad way."

"Mmm," Moyre said noncommittally, casting a clandestine wink at Groyl. "Why don't you two talk for a while and I'll sort the veggies we just picked."

Moyre got up from the chair and made her way to the pantry. Groyl signed resignedly as he turned toward Fiona, who was taking another drink from her mug.

"I see you've discovered our chessboard," he said.

"Yes. I hope you don't mind!" Fiona responded.

"Oh, not at all. Moyre and I like to play from time to time…not a lot of recreational choices out here." He smiled. "I'll bet yeh didn't think an ogre'd play a game like chess, though, eh?"

Fiona blushed again. "Well…actually…I…um…"

He waved her concern aside. "Forget it," he said. "We're all learning new things 'bout each other." Moyre looked back at him from her sorting and he and she shared another knowing glance. "So," he continued after a moment, "you're playing yourself?"

"I was earlier," Fiona said. "But this time I'm trying to re-create one of the famous grandmaster matches that they included in a chapter of a chess strategy book that I read a few times in the tower. You see, the person playing the white pieces is about to start employing his end game that will defeat black."

Groyl looked over the board. "Really?" he said. "I see black mating white in three moves."

"What?" Fiona said, looking more intently at the board.

"Here…here…here…" Groyl said, waving a sausage-like finger above the board tracing out the moves.

Fiona blinked. "That…that can't be. Maybe I set the board wrong…" she scratched her head and squinted her eyes as she studied the board. "But I don't think so…"

"I guess whoever was playing the black pieces wasn't such a grand player after all," he mused. "But enough of copying what other people do or think. Would yeh like to play a real game, you and me? We'll see if I'm still the second-best player in this house." He and Moyre then shared a playful glance.

Fiona looked at Groyl, then down at the board, then again traced out the moves he had pointed out to her, then back up at Groyl again. She smiled and said, "I'd love to."


	19. Absolute-tion

**Layer 19: Absolute-tion**

"What are you after, Stiltskin? What is your blasted game?"

Rumpelstiltskin, dressed in a regal white suit and head topped by his tall white wig, leaned back in his seat at the twenty-foot diameter round table and smiled benevolently at the finely dressed albeit somewhat portly nobleman who had sprung up from his own seat toward Rumpel's left and was staring at him in contempt. Rumpel sensed both Sir Hoariman and Baba, who stood to either side and a few feet behind him, tense. He casually waved them down, then steepled his fingers and addressed the nobleman, one of three who sat about the table. "Excuse me, Baron Quaybarge. But that would be _King_ Stiltskin, if you don't mind. Although I will settle for 'Your Majesty', if you prefer. I'm not all that demanding."

"Not demanding, indeed!" Quaybarge puffed through his thick gray moustache, and then ran a hand in exasperation over his balding scalp. "You've entirely changed the economic dynamic of this kingdom!"

"Yes, a most radical change, indeed," another of the barons said with a calmer but more haughty tone. This man – about the same age as Quaybarge but taller, thinner, and apparently less temperamental – leaned back in his chair, set directly across the table from Rumpel. "And radicalism is not conducive to a stable economic model. There must be control."

"Control, Baron Stonefellow?" Rumpel asked. "But the people are doing so well!"

"Yes, all _too_ well!" the third baron – a man of more medium height and middle age, sporting salt-and-pepper hair and stylishly short-cut beard – added from his seat toward Rumpel's right. "Where _did_ all of this sudden wealth come from? You can't just snap your fingers and make somebody as wealthy as – as —"

"As a _baron_, Baron Steelman?" Rumpel said, and his smile deepened as he saw Steelman wince and his face blush. "I assure you, it's not as simple as snapping my fingers, but I _am_ adept at my own particular brand of magic, and I don't see any problems with offering my services to those who choose to partake voluntarily. Those who like what they've got can keep it. To the others I provide a little hope and change. As king, it's the least I can do for my people."

"_Your_ people!" Quaybarge scoffed. "What do _you_ know about the people of this kingdom?"

"I would wager more than _yourself_, Baron," Rumpel countered. "When I was a struggling entrepreneur, wandering through the streets and markets of Far Far Away – streets and markets and dwellings much more numerous but far less prestigious than the homes and shops along the famed Romeo Drive – I don't recall running into you or your colleagues very often."

Quaybarge was about to offer a retort but Stonefellow raised a restraining hand. "As members of the elite, it is not our position to fraternize pointlessly with the common citizenry, feigning commiseration like hypocritical politicians" he said. "But it _is_ in our interest to ensure their general welfare by providing a stable social structure free from undue interference from monarchial authority and ensuring a fair economic playing field."

Rumpel stared at him for a moment, and then said, "Wow. Do you really talk like that, or did you memorize it beforehand?"

Stonefellow sniffed and shrugged.

"And by the way," Rumpel continued, "did you notice that 'fair' playing field is tipped to _your_ advantage?"

Stonefellow shrugged again. "God has deigned to bless us with fruits commensurate with our position and responsibilities, and the fact that He has so blessed us indicates his approval of the system as it exists" he said. "Who are _we_ to question God's plan?"

"Whereas, as members of the Council of Barons, it's our _job_ to question _yours,_" Steelman injected.

"Indeed!" Quaybarge agreed. "Which brings me back to my question. _Why_ are you doing this? What's in it for _you?_"

Rumpel sighed and looked around at the three men – and their armed guards, two of which stood behind each of their masters to provide for their protection, as Hoariman and Baba were doing for him. "Gentlemen, gentlemen, please" Rumpel said. "I have the utmost respect for you—"

"Oh, really?" Steelman challenged. "Then why did you hold this meeting in the sub-basement of the palace? And what's behind that oversized curtain?" Here he indicated a large burgundy colored curtain, some thirty feet high and fifty across, that made up one of the room's walls.

"My apologies for the location," Rumpel said. "We're doing renovations above."

"Yes, we saw," Quaybarge said. "It looks like you're building a giant egg on top of this palace. A symbol of what your reign is likely to lay?"

Rumpel pretended to ignore him. "My dear sirs," he pleaded, "my program is very popular. The people have given me a mandate. Can you not accept that I am looking out for the economic well being of this kingdom?"

Quaybarge openly guffawed. Steelman smiled sardonically. Stonefellow shook his head, and then rose to speak. "Stiltskin," he began.

"Ah ah ah!" Rumpel said, wagging a finger. "I'm sorry, Baron Stonefellow, but I _must_ insist."

Stonefellow stared irritably at the imp for a few moments, then composed his dignity, stiffened his stance, and continued. "Very well. _Your Majesty_. I use the title out of respect of the crown, not the ma— the _person_ wearing it."

"Aha!" Rumpel said. "I see now. Your problem is that I'm not human like you three are."

"Oh, please don't play the species card, that has nothing to do with it," Stonefellow retorted. "It just saddens me that that the crown has fallen to such an unbridled, unmitigated opportunist. You, 'Sire', could not care less for these people. Your program is popular because you are promising these people gifts, buying their loyalty, and the poor ignorant masses know no better. But you cannot make _real_ prosperity suddenly appear and disappear, despite whatever so-called 'magic', whatever sleight of hand you apply. For such wealth to be stable and lasting and not burst the economy it must be backed with something substantial. Something like gold, or silver."

"Or diamonds? Or emeralds?" Rumpel asked.

Stonefellow blinked. "I…beg your pardon?"

"Or sapphires? Or rubies?"

"I don't understand what you're—"

Rumpel turned to Baba. With a brief, evil grin that the other men could not see, he said simply, "Now."

Baba nodded, looked toward the ceiling over the drape, put a hand to one side of her mouth, and called, "_Curtain, ladies!_"

A moment later the curtain drew aside to reveal a glistening pile of treasure. Heaps of gold coins of various denominations and nationalities, golden statues and chalices and trinkets of all kinds, sprinkled throughout with riches of silver and precious stones.

Stonefellow turned, beheld the splendor, and nearly swooned. "Oh, my Word!" he said, and then fell silent.

"Good Heavens!" Steelman gasped as he rose on shaky legs to join Sonefellow and Quaybarge. All three men gaped in awe at the gleaming, ostentatious display.

"A king's ransom!" Quaybarge almost croaked.

"A king_dom_'s ransom, actually," Rumpel corrected. "Recovered from the dragon's castle. And it can all be yours!"

All three men turned and looked back at Rumpel, who was now standing as well, a contract suddenly on the table before him and a quill pen in his hand. The imp smiled. "Sign this and it's all yours, to be divided evenly among the signatories. All for the good of the people and economic stability, of course. But there are no strings attached as to how any of you wish to proceed with the…stewardship of your portion."

Three sets of eyes narrowed suspiciously as one. "What's the catch?" Steelman said, barely beating his two fellow councilmen with the question.

"Ah, a wise guy—er, man!" Rumpel said. "Well, there _is_ one stipulation. So that I can continue to oversee the continued growth of the kingdom without fetters as I work toward the…betterment of my people, and since you learned gentlemen will be so busy with…determining the best course of, um, re-investing your windfall, that silly piece of paper, the Manga Carpal, would seem to be an inconvenient impediment to us all. So what's say we streamline economic growth for all and suspend it? Do that…" here Rumpel slid the contract forward a bit "…and you will each be entitled to an equal share of everything recovered from the dragon's castle."

"You mean…" Quaybarge said, as all three men turned back to the treasure, its opulence reflecting in their pupils, "_all_ that treasure?"

"An equal share of everything recovered from the castle," Rumpel repeated. "Everything that's in front of you."

The men looked at the treasure for a while longer, and then looked around at each other, and then all turned together as one and headed toward Rumpel.

"Let me see that," Quaybarge said, snatching the contract. As he held it before him and read, Stonefellow and Steelman, standing to either side of him, each grabbed an edge as well, and also read. Almost as one they looked from the contract over to Rumpel.

Rumpel smiled. "As I said, suspend the Manga Carpal, and you will receive your reward. It's really one of the simpler contracts I've ever drawn up, not much fine print at all. And you see? This pen doesn't even have any magic ink in it – it's all natural." Here he held the quill out to the three men.

The men paused for a moment, looked again at each other again, and then with a flurry of activity Quaybarge laid the paper down and grabbed the quill. He quickly scribbled his name and then hurried over to the treasure as Stonefellow took up the pen. "I'm sure it is for the good of the people," he said as he added his signature.

"Absolutely! What could be better for the people than to concentrate wealth into hands of the few at the top who properly know how to manage it, and can trickle prosperity down upon them?" Rumpel said as Stonefellow handed the quill to Steelman and left to join Quaybarge. As Steelman finished his signature and hurried over to stand with the other two to marvel over their unexpected fortune, Rumpel calmly rolled up the contract, picked up the quill, and wandered toward the room's only exit, a thick reinforced door, which stood on the opposite wall from where the treasure was piled. Baba and Sir Hoariman followed attentively. As they neared the door, Hoariman stepped past Rumpel and opened it as Rumpel turned back toward the barons, who still had their backs to him as they continued staring, almost hypnotically, at their treasure.

"Oh, by the way," Rumpel called. "There's one more surprise, something else that we recovered from the dragon's castle, which is also right in front of you, and is part of what you deserve." He turned to the witch. "Now," he said.

Baba looked up and again put a hand to the side of her mouth. "_Divider, ladies!_" she yelled.

With that, the far wall of the room behind the treasure began to rise as the clanking of large shifting iron chains could be heard. Something else could now be heard as well; the sound of breathing. The sound of something _big_ breathing. After a few seconds the 'wall' had completely lifted and the three men found themselves peering over the mounds of treasure at a large, red, _angry_ dragon.

The dragon roared.

The barons screamed.

"Ah!" Rumpel said, amused. "I believe they're trickling now!"

As the barons' guards took up defensive positions which were brave but doomed, the three barons turned from the beast and began running toward Rumpel and the lone means of escape. But Rumpel threw them a mock salute and a moment later he, Baba and Hoariman had stepped through the door, which Hoariman slammed shut and quickly locked behind them. Rumpel and his attendants stared back at the door. There was some progressively desperate pounding from the other side, then more screams, and then silence. A few tendrils of smoke seeped out from under the door and drifted upward.

Rumpel sighed contentedly. "Getting rid of an annoying board of busy-body-barons and their irksome piece of paper: temporary forfeiture of a dragon's treasure. Doing it without having to resort to using magic: priceless!"

Rumpel then kissed the newly signed contract, tucked it away in an inside breast pocked of his coat, and pulled out another piece of paper. "The Manga Carpal," he sneered, unfurling and holding it up. "Well, so much for that! It's time to put the 'absolute' into absolute monarch, absolute power, and absolute corruption!" With that, he tore the document in half.

At the moment the paper ripped, a resounding clap of thunder sounded from outside and overhead. Simultaneously, Hoariman stumbled on his feet, nearly collapsing, as if he'd taken a great jolt. He staggered backward until the back of his armored suit clattered against the still-warm wall, keeping him from falling. He closed his eyes and shook his head, as if attempting to clear cobwebs. When he opened his eyes they quickly focused on Rumpel, who was standing a few feet away beside Baba, both staring back at him, a little smirk on the imp's face.

"Oh, my!" Rumpel said. "It appears that the spell that bound you to the constitutional monarch has been broken, since…well, there _is_ no constitution any longer, is there? No more silly little bounds on me!"

"Nor on I, you maniacal little punk" Hoariman said, drawing his sword. Still a bit groggy but rapidly recovering, he began striding toward the imp.

Just before he reached him, Baba stepped in his way, her broom held before her.

Hoariman glared at her for a moment, and then said, "Get out of the way, witch, or else, female or not, I'll…" with that he lifted his sword.

Suddenly, and deftly, Baba used her broomstick to swat the sword aside, then whiling around she swung the broom in an arc and landed the thick, hard wood against his head, knocking his helmet off and sending it flying down the hallway. Hoariman stumbled backward again, this time collapsing. He shook his head and rubbed it where Baba had struck, feeling the start of swelling. He looked up at her in surprise, only to find her still standing between him and a smirking Rumpel; she was now holding her broom in the ready position of a kendo warrior.

"My witches might not be as superficially impressive as those lazy wand wavers," Rumpel said. "Especially when they're saving their magic for one big, important event, like mine are. But even without employing magic they do bring their own particular set of skills. Surprised, much?"

One of Hoariman's eyes twitched, a corner of one of his lips curled, and then he stood and launched himself forward. He and Baba fought for several seconds, Hoariman's sword sending some chips flying off the thick, hardened broomstick but no cuts so deep as to endanger its integrity, it apparently having a core of something unearthly in addition to its tough shell, until with a turning, sweeping motion Baba swept her stick across the back of Hoariman's ankles, knocking him off of his feet and bringing him crashing down onto his back with a clattering of armor. Striking the back of his head on the stone floor, he was knocked out cold.

Rumpel, hands folded behind him, strolled over and looked down at his unconscious adversary. "Poor Sir Hoariman," Rumpel said in mock sorrow. "You were so good in your time. But this time it's _my_ time. And I'm afraid your position of royal protector has been filled."

Rumpel looked back up to see that Baba had been joined by five other witches who had wandered in from where they had fulfilled their roles in handling the Council of Barons through working the levers that moved the curtain and divider. "Take him to the dungeon," he addressed two of them. As they began dragging Hoariman to his feet Rumpel turned to another witch and ordered, "Bring me that coronation present from my special friend." As she nodded and departed, Rumpel said, "Now's the time to strike, ladies, while soldiers and guards about town are, like our departed knight, just awakening from their obedience spells and are disoriented and unorganized. Follow me." They obediently followed as he led them at a quick pace down another hallway and onto a balcony of the castle. Night had fallen some time before, and torches to either side of the doorway had been lit.

Standing on the balcony, Rumpel and the witches looked upon downtown Far Far Away. Even at this distance they could hear the thumping music and see the lights as the citizens, nearly all of whom had signed prosperity deals with Rumpel, danced and cavorted in happiness and merriment as they celebrated their newfound wealth. "Ah, yes," Rumpel mused, taking in the sight. "So many signatories, so few who bothered to read the admittedly obscure fine print that directed that all funds would default to the kingdom treasury in cases of supernatural apocalyptic events. But, hey, what's the odds on that?" Then, with a little smile, he turned to Baba. "Send the signal," he ordered.

"Yes, sir," she said, laying her broomstick down and hurrying back to the doorway. She pulled out the torches from their wall mounts, hurried back to her place beside Rumpel and then, holding one torch in each hand and facing the 'Far Far Away' sign on the hillside nearby, began making semaphore signals.

From her position standing atop the first letter 'F' in the 'Far Far Away' sign, the witch Griselda peered at Rumpel's castle through a spyglass. When she saw Baba's signal she cackled, contracted the spyglass and tucked it inside her gown. Then she hopped down from the sign and hurried up the few yards to the wooded top of the hill. There she found, hidden just inside the tree line, a row of seven large bubbling cauldrons set about ten yards apart from each other, each with a pair of witches minding them, one of each pair holding a large flask of glowing purple liquid. Just beyond them two dozen tall, brawny barbarians with Asiatic features sat upon muscular horses.

"Okay, ladies," Griselda said, "we've got the signal. Add the catalysts!"

At the cauldrons, each witch holding a flask poured its contents into the bubbling brew. Immediately the boiling increased in intensity and a noxious, luminous purple plum of smoke began rising from the mixture.

As this was happening, Griselda approached the barbarian sitting in front of his cohort, a mound of a man of well over three hundred pounds, nearly all of it muscle. He had a bald pate, but raven hair grew from around it and fell past his shoulders. A Fu Manchu moustache framed a smirking mouth, and bushy eyebrows topped eyes with unnaturally black sclera and yellow irises. (_He really should see an ophthalmologist about that_, Griselda thought.) Both he and his massive black steed seemed to snort as she approached.

"Are you and your men ready, Hun?"

"Any time, sweetie," he said in a controlled low, measured baritone. He smirked when he saw her confused expression and then said, "I prefer to be addressed by my name.

"All right," Griselda said, "who are you, again?"

"I am Yu," he said.

She blinked. "You are me?" she said.

"No," he replied, voice slightly strained, "_I_ am _Yu_."

Griselda snaked her fingers under the brim of her pointy hat and scratched her crusty scalp for a few seconds. "Whatever," she eventually said, "just be ready." She then turned, looked down upon the lighted, lively town below, and then cried, "Okay, ladies…pour it on!"

With that, the witches tipped their cauldrons over, their contents splashing out, spreading apart as they spilled downhill, and then congealing together and forming a dully luminescent purple mass of thick fog that streamed down the hillside, around the 'Far Far Away' sign and on toward the town below, roiling like a pyroclastic flow.

"Wait for it…" Griselda said as she watched the cloud advance. It had reached a height of ten feet and was rising still when it eventually hit the outskirts of town. It then flowed over, around, and through the town, the sounds of revelry turning to screams of fear as the town was plunged into a violet haze.

"All right," Griselda said, turning to Yu. "Remember, you can sack and pillage the property, but no deaths. Understood?"

Yu sneered down at her. "I quite recall the terms of our agreement with your 'king'. And that rather surprised me, as he did not strike me as a…humanitarian."

"Ha! He's hardly that," she scoffed. "But, as he puts it, 'What's the point of being a tyrant if you don't have plenty of underlings around to tyrannize?'"

"Hmm. Yes, that does sound more…consistent," Yu said. "Very well. Nobody dies…" He then drew a long, zigzag bladed sword, and quick as a wink he was pointing it down with the tip of the blade just beneath Griselda's jaw, near her throat. She gave an abortive gasp and stared, wide eyed, up at him. He smiled smugly, and concluded, "…not even those who deserve to."

A moment later, apparently satisfied with the level of terror he saw in Griselda's eyes, he swung the blade away from her and pointed it toward the town below. "YAH!" he yelled, and leaning forward with the sword still held aloft, he began galloping down the hillside. A moment later his men made assorted war whoops and followed. As Yu rode between the first 'A' and second 'F' of the 'Far Far Away' sign, he swung at the wooden supports of the 'F', splintering them with one blow and sending the letter toppling. Many of his men struck at other letters or their supports that they rode past, downing or damaging them, leaving the sign looking like it had been attacked by a swarm of giant termites.

Still standing on the castle balcony, Rumpel watched the roaring horde following the mist down the hillside toward the town, his steepled fingertips tapping each other. "Good…good…" he muttered with a warped but contented smile. Then he noticed that, where the mist began to dissipate where it had begun rolling down the hillside, it left the shrubs and small trees leafless, and from the fading luminescence he could see that even the grass seemed to be withering away. "Oh, dear!" he observed with mock concern. "It seems that the warnings about the chemicals used in this spell being harmful to plant life were true. How inconvenient!" Then his smile turned wry. "For the people down there, that is."

"Sir!" said a voice from beside him. Rumpel turned to see that the witch he had sent for his coronation gift had returned and was holding it out to him.

"Very good!" he said, taking it from her. He paused for a moment to admire it: a glistening golden violin, with an inscription that read, '_To my friend Rumpel – You truly are the king of deal-makers, and I should know!_' and signed with an ornate cursive 'L' whose elongated tail ended with a little spade-shaped point. "And it's still warm!" Rumpel chuckled as he took the bow and rested the violin beneath his chin. "How about a little mood music?" he said, and started playing _Danse Macabre_ as the sounds of pandemonium rose from the town below.


	20. The Good Times are Ogre

**Layer 20: The Good Times are Ogre**

Rapunzel sat at a small table just outside front window of _The Spanish Grill_ restaurant in downtown Far Far Away, trying to ignore the street festivities around her. People – _common_ people – were laughing, singing, and partying. The quality of their clothing, jewelry and accessories were nearly on a par with her own, which upset her royal sense of propriety. And all because of Rumpelstiltskin's deal-making. Well, perhaps she would see the impertinent little imp about a deal of her own, she thought, although one of a more personal nature, and reflexively reached up and straightened the golden tiara in her long blond locks styled in multiple long braids.

"Anyway," said a beautiful woman of about the same age who sat across the table and who also wore a tiara in her straight brunet hair, "I heard that Snow and Cindy got swept up…" Here she had to pause to yawn, then shook her head and continued, "… got swept up by some sort of fairy-tale character dragnet over in Duloc."

Rapunzel snorted derisively. "Well, Beauty, if you ask me, if you spend so much time in a backwoods province with filthy talking rodents and filthier dwarf miners, eventually you're going to get ratted out and picked up."

"Wow," Beauty said. "What's got _your_ tresses in a bind tonight?"

"_Lay off my tresses!_" Rapunzel snapped.

Beauty blinked. "Jeez, take it easy! I'm just trying to make conversation."

Rapunzel closed her eyes and tried to compose herself. "Sorry," she said. "I've just been having…personal problems lately."

"Ohhh," Beauty said knowingly, then reached over and patted Rapunzel's hand. When Rapunzel opened her eyes and looked at her, Beauty winked and said, "I understand. I had my…_problems_ just last week."

Rapunzel rolled her eyes. "It's not _that_, Beauty." She said.

"Oh. Well, then what? Is something wrong with your head?"

Rapunzel's eyes narrowed. "What _about_ my head?" she challenged.

"I mean…all this," Beauty said, gesturing to all the celebration going on around them. "The people coming out and expressing all this gaiety. I know it can be disconcerting, but we really should be happy for them."

Rapunzel looked around at the commoners, the contrast of their sudden good fortune only making her own recent loss more painful. "It's not natural," she intoned. "It's only because of…magic."

"So what's wrong with that?" Beauty asked.

Rapunzel laid a hand on either side of her own face and plopped her elbows onto the table top so that she was looking downward. "Because magic _sucks!_" she muttered, trying to keep her voice from choking.

Suddenly someone plunked a large iron skillet, filled with sizzling and steaming chunks of meat, onions, and different colored peppers in front of them.

"_Y listo!_" a jubilant Spanish-accented voice said. Rapunzel looked up to see the portly, mustached manager of the restaurant looking down upon her with a broad smile while two of his staff placed covered tortilla baskets and bowls with tomatoes, lettuce, sour cream and salsa before her and Beauty. "Your order of Fajitas Supreme is complete, Your Highnesses! Is there anything else I can do for you this fine evening?"

"Yeah," Rapunzel said. "I'll have a Margarita. Beauty, do you want—" She looked over at the other princess only to see her head slumped forward, and she was beginning to snore. Rapunzel sighed and then said to the manager, "And some coffee for my friend. Black."

"Si, Your Highness," the manager said, bowed, and then headed back into the restaurant followed closely by his two assistants.

Rapunzel huffed irritably, then reached over and smacked Beauty's hand. Beauty immediately raised her head to attention and her eyes sprung open. "Huh? Wha? Whozzat?" she sputtered.

"Really, Beauty, you should see somebody about those narcoleptic episodes. It can't be healthy," Rapunzel said as she looked down at the table, took a tortilla and began filling it with pieces of meat she picked out of the skillet with a small fork.

"What's that?" Beauty said, concern in her voice.

"It had _better_ be chicken," Rapunzel said. "That's what we ordered."

"No," Beauty said, rising from her seat as her voice took on more urgency. "_That!_"

Rapunzel looked up. Beauty was standing by her chair, but was holding onto the back of it with one hand as her whole body trembled. Her eyes were wide with fear, and she had one arm held out as she pointed to something in the distance. Rapunzel followed her gesture, gasped and quickly rose from her own chair, nearly knocking it over.

Down from the hill upon which sat the 'Far Far Away' sign a thick luminous purple fog was rolling, heading directly toward them. Other people around them had also begun noticing the ominous phenomenon, and the sounds of jubilation quickly began to turn to cries of fear as people began running haphazardly about, panicked.

"Rapunzel, what—what do we do?" Beauty said as she took moved toward her friend and they embraced in terror. But there was nothing to do as suddenly the fog washed into town, bathing everything in an eerie purple haze where visibility was limited to a dozen or so feet. The smell, oddly enough, reminded Rapunzel of fried onions – or was she still catching a whiff of her skillet? – and she could feel its dampness adhering to her skin. She instinctively tried not to breathe the stuff in – but the stronger instincts of her adrenaline-infused body forced her to inhale. She felt a little light-headed for a few seconds, and her vision grew blurry. That in itself frightened her, but it was nothing compared to the fear when after a few seconds her vision and head cleared and she heard the pounding of hooves storming down the same hill from which the fog was rolling, obscuring the riders within.

"Is…this a nightmare?!" Beauty said, tightening her embrace.

"I'm afraid not," Rapunzel said. "Maybe we should head inside—"

But just then there was a rapid clomping before them and a figure suddenly rode into view. For a moment Rapunzel thought she caught the dull outline of a tall muscular man atop a horse, but then he drew nearer and she realized that she was staring at the outline of an ogre sitting upon a great warthog. The ogre wore old, tattered trousers. He had no shirt, and his massive green chest grew a thick tuft of hair. In one hand he held a gnarled, ugly, imposing club.

"Well, now," the ogre said in a gravelly voice, leering down at them. "Hello, ladies. A big foggy tonight, eh?"

The ogre deftly slipped a leg over the warthog's back, dropped to the ground and began striding toward them. Both princesses screamed, and then Rapunzel felt Beauty faint – or did she just fall asleep again? Rapunzel let her friend's listless body slip through her arms as she stepped back, hoping the ogre would pay attention to Beauty's helpless form and leave her alone. Unfortunately, the ogre simply stepped over the supine princess and toward Rapunzel. Staring at the ogre, shaking her head plaintively, Rapunzel retreated until her back was pressed against the restaurant's brick wall. The ogre moved forward until he stood before her, staring down at her from his six and a half foot height. The mist glistened off of his green skin. His long earstalks were askew. His head was hairless except for a thick moustache. Rapunzel was too scared to even scream – and didn't think she could be any more scared until he smiled at her with a wicked, gap-toothed smile.

"My, my" he said, his breath foul. "What do we have here?" He lifted one sausage-fingered hand and reached toward her throat. Rapunzel's eyes widened even larger and she uttered a squeak of a scream as her own hand went to her throat defensively. The ogre paused, smiled even more deeply, then continued reaching forward, but instead of feeling his massive hand enclose her throat, Rapunzel felt a sting in the back of her neck; it was where her gold necklace snapped when he viciously pulled it off of her.

The ogre held up the necklace, admiring it for a moment. "My, what a fine little trinket," he observed, and then dropped it into a pocket of his stained, worn trousers. Then he looked up at the tiara in Rapunzel's hair. "As is that!" he said, and reached for it.

"_No! Don't!_" the princess cried, reaching up herself. But she was a beat too late, as the ogre grabbed the tiara and pulled. But instead of ripping the tiara loose, Rapunzel's hair came with it, and the ogre found himself holding a huge wig, while before him stood a horrified princess, with a pate as bald as his own. Rapunzel blushed, moaned and shamefully covered her entire head with her arms while the befuddled ogre stared at her.

Then the ogre cried out in distress, "_Hey! Stop that! Get offa me!_"

Rapunzel dropped her arms and saw the ogre stumbling about, reaching around his head and trying to take hold of his unexpected assailant. Beauty had leapt upon his back, holding on with her legs while with her arms she was attempting enclose his huge head in a sleeper hold. The ogre continued to struggle and protest in progressively less refined language until he was using words that Rapunzel knew that a woman of her station was never meant to hear.

Frightened and, frankly, appalled at the swearing, the first thing that occurred to Rapunzel was to take the opportunity to flea while the beast was pre-occupied with Beauty. She turned to do so, but then remembered her wig. She turned back around and looked. The mist was thinning and she quickly found where the ogre dropped it. She picked it up, brushed it off twice quickly with her hand, and sat it upon her head; she could tell it was askew but she would need to worry about that later. Just then, the ogre, whose movements of body and mouth had been slowing as Beauty's hold was taking effect, managed to grab hold of a good chunk of her hair and, amidst cries of pain from the princess, violently pulled her off of him and slung her to the ground, where she rolled a couple of times and ended up laying on her back. Rapunzel watched the scene and couldn't help but be jealous of Beauty at having such a resilient head of hair.

"Why, you little _vixen!_" the ogre spat, picking up his club and looking over at the supine princess, who was struggling to sit up on her elbows while looking up at the beast, terror in her eyes. "You didn't think you could do that and not get _punished_, did you?"

The ogre had his back to Rapunzel, who thought that that now would be another good opportunity to take her leave. She turned to do so, but Beauty's plaintive, "_No! Please! Don't!_" gave her pause. The irritating somnambulist _would_ have had to come to _her_ rescue. Now if Rapunzel didn't return the favor she would never hear the end of it…well, if Beauty survived her 'punishment', anyway. She could just imagine Beauty blabbing to Snow, Cindy, and all the others, probably showing off whatever scars she was about to receive from this encounter, 'When Punzy got scared and ran away'. As Rupunzel stood for a moment, inwardly debating what to do, she noticed the iron skillet still sitting half full on the table where they had been sitting. Without thinking further, she grabbed the skillet – quite heavy, she noticed – turned, and rushed over behind the ogre as he towered over Beauty. Holding the handle with both hands, she whacked him hard on the back of the head just as he began to raise his club. The clang of iron resounded around them. The ogre's arms immediately fell limp to his sides as the club dropped harmlessly to the ground. He swayed on his feet for a moment and then toppled forward, falling like a great tree; Beauty had to quickly roll aside so as not to be squashed.

"Good job, Punzy! Thank you!" Beauty said, scrambling to her feet.

"Yeah, whatever," Rapunzel said, kneeling down and reaching into one of the ogre's trouser pockets.

"What are you _doing?_" Beauty said, aghast.

Rapunzel pulled out the necklace that the ogre had taken. "What's mine is _mine_," she said, holding it out and examining it.

Then the ogre moaned, and began to roll his head. Both Rapunzel and Beauty gasped. It was clear that despite the severity of the blow the ogre would be conscious again in a few seconds.

"Let's get out of here!" Beauty said, reaching down to grab Rapunzel's arm.

"Huh? Oh, yeah, okay," Rapunzel said, stuffing the necklace down the cleavage of her dress, picking the skillet back up and scrambling to her feet.

Together the two princesses began heading toward the door of the restaurant, but after the had take just a couple of steps in that direction another ogre, still mounted on his own warthog, appeared from the haze and rode into the restaurant's doorway. The princesses clumsily halted as they heard screams from inside, reversed their direction and starting running down the walkway along the misty Romeo drive as behind them they heard the sound of breaking glass and the proprietor crying, "Not the wine! Not my best wine!"

They had just traveled a few yards when the sound of heavy clomping feet from somewhere up ahead again caused them to stop in their tracks. They both looked around where they stood. "There!" Beauty said, pointing to a nearby, deeply recessed and dark shop doorway. The princesses ran into it and tried the door. It was locked. They both pounded on it, pleading to be let in, but there was no response. After a few seconds they simply huddled closely together and turned to face the street, Rapunzel holding the skillet at the ready with two shaky hands. Beyond them they heard the sounds of warthog feet clattering, windows smashing, people screaming, and the occasional whoosh of property being set ablaze. The purple mist continued to recede, but its gloom and stench was gradually replaced by the haze and scent of smoke.

"You know what's weird?" Beauty asked.

"Oh, I don't know, Beauty," Rapunzel quipped, not looking at Beauty but keeping an eye out on the street. "Maybe that purple fog? Or the town being overrun by rampaging ogres? Those would be the top two on my list."

"No. I mean, yeah, that. But…when I was trying to grip that ogre's head, it seemed like my arms were…I don't know…_sinking through_ part of him, somehow."

"What, you mean neck fat? I know it's gross, but I doubt ogres go to the spa."

"No, not that. It was like…well, like he had an aura or something."

"Aura? Are you going new-age on me?"

"Don't be silly. I'm as middle ages as the next princess."

"Then I think that maybe you weren't fully awake, like usual," Rapunzel said, and finally glanced over at Beauty, only to see her staring up at her wig.

"_What?_" Rapunzel snarled.

"Oh, nothing, nothing," Beauty said, averting her eyes. After a few moments, she ventured, "Um…how did—"

"_I don't want to talk about it._"

"Okay! Fine! Fine!"

There was an awkward silence between them, but the sounds of struggles around them continued. Eventually Rapunzel turned back to the street and said, "Where are our soldiers?"

"Heck if I know," Beauty said. "Right now I'd settle for some prince riding in on his noble steed to take us away from here. This situation is way too hairy."

Rapunzel shot her a look.

"Oops!" Beauty said, blushing and gritting her teeth in an uneasy apologetic grin. "Sorry!"

Rapunzel just shook her head and again looked back toward the street. But overlooking the gaffe, Beauty's remark about the prince caused a tug in Rapunzel's heart. She hadn't seen or heard from Pookie – from _Charming_ – since that morning when his mother had appeared and whisked him away from her. Now both he and his 'mummy' were gone, Heaven knew where, just when this tragedy had befallen her beautiful hair. Rapunzel wondered sometimes if maybe the Fairy Godmother hadn't had a hand in it, and perhaps she (Rapunzel) should have known better than to have gotten so tangled up with a momma's boy.

Just then, from out of the purple mist, slowly emerged another rider. This ogre was even bigger and broader than the last. He had the expected green skin and protruding earstalks, but unlike the other ogre this one had shoulder-length black hair growing from around his bald pate. A moustache that looked like opposing sickles bracketed his mouth, and thick unkempt eyebrows sat above eyes with black sclera and yellow irises, which Rapunzel thought looked odd even for an ogre. This made the fact that those eyes were staring directly at her all the more unnerving.

The ogre's warthog trotted toward the princesses as the ogre continued to stare at them, his mouth curling into what might be a leer, or might be simply a contemptuous grin.

"D-d-d-don't, come any closer!" Rapunzel said, holding out the skillet. "I've got a frying pan here, a-and I'm not afraid to use it!" Only after the words had left her mouth did she realize how absurd they sounded.

Still, the ogre did pull his 'steed' up with a snort some twenty feet from the princesses, in the middle of Romeo drive. The ambient sounds of pandemonium still echoed around them, but he seemed oblivious as he stared at them with those weird eyes whose pupils almost seemed to glow.

"Good evening, ladies," the ogre finally said in a low, rumbling baritone. "I hope that this evening's events have not upset you too much. My men tend to be somewhat…overenthusiastic." He smiled a cold smile.

Suddenly a soldier rushed in from out of the mist. "Keep away from them, monster!" he cried.

The ogre looked almost casually at the charging soldier, who was dressed in a simple outfit of red tunic and white leggings, his only armor being a chain mail shirt and short domed helmet atop a chain mail hood. The solder drew his sword as he approached the ogre and, holding it with both hands, swung at him. But with one quick, fluid motion the ogre drew his own sword – longer than his foe's and with an odd, zig-zag blade – and easily parried the blow. The solder swung again and again, only to be parried with equal easy. At last the ogre appeared to tire of the intrusion and with one last, vicious blow knocked the sword flying out of the solder's hand and sending it flying far off somewhere into the mist. The soldier watched his weapon disappear, then stared down at his empty, stinging hands, and then up at the smirking ogre.

The soldier sighed resignedly, dropping to his knees and bowing his head. "Very well," he said. "Take my life. I only beg that you allow your bloodlust to be satiated with me, and that you spare yon maidens."

The ogre seemed to chuckle. "How brave. How gallant. And how stupid," he said. He then raised his sword to strike, but then paused, as if remembering something. The ogre sighed himself, and then lowered his sword. "No," he said reluctantly. "You shall not die this night by my hand. But have faith, my foolish friend. I am sure other opportunities for valiant ends lie in store for a man as…daring as yourself."

The ogre then looked back over at the cowering princesses. "Maidens, eh?" he said with a smirk.

Rapunzel blushed.

* * *

From the castle balcony, Rumpel continued to fiddle as the receding mist revealed several fires that had broken out across town. Sounds of pandemonium had reached a crescendo that filtered up through the night air and could be heard through pauses in Rumpel's recital. The imp abruptly stopped. "Well," he said. "It appears that my kingdom is in dire distress. Ladies, time to rev up the deus ex machina. The five witches all leaned their broomsticks downward, where they began hovering in place about two feet from the floor. Each of the broomsticks now had a lit lantern hanging from near the nose and a small cauldron near its rear. The witches all mounted their broomsticks side-saddle style, and Rumple – still holding only his violin – similarly hopped up onto Baba's broomstick just behind her. "Up, up, and away, ladies!" he cried, and the witches launched into the air. From across the valley behind the damaged 'Far Far Away' sign, a flock of some two dozen other witches also took flight. Together, the witches began descending onto the panicked town as Rumpel began playing _Ride of the Valkyries_.

* * *

Rapunzel heard the first explosions from far down the street, in the direction of the castle, and thought they were part of the ogres' rampage. But then she heard a few more go off, and the cries that accompanied them were not the screams of citizens but the offended bellows of ogres. And then – above the din – she heard the unlikely sound of violin music drifting down from the skies, and looked up to behold the eerie glow of lanterns illuminating the foreboding shapes of several witches as they swooped across town. Every so often one of them would throw something downward, where it would explode in the street. Good grief, Rapunzel thought, were they now going to be assaulted by every type of fairy tale villain? But then one witch-tossed object landed nearby and rolled toward the ogre. It stopped a few feet away and Rapunzel saw that it appeared to be a small jack-o-lantern with a burning fuse attached. "Look out!" the soldier said, rising and rushing toward the princesses. But then the object exploded, sending the soldier tumbling forward and the ogre's warthog rearing. The ogre quickly calmed the animal as the soldier scrambled to his feet and took a stance hear the princesses, putting himself between the ogre and the women. The ogre looked at the little group…then grinned that snarky, knowing grin again. "It appears your…rescuers have arrived," he said. He gave a mock salute with his sword, and then sheathed it, turned his steed and trotted away until he couldn't be seen anymore even in the receding mist.

"_Rescuers?_" Beauty said in disbelief. "Did he just call those witches…'rescuers'?"

"Surely a sad jest!" the soldier declared. "Doubtlessly those wicked crones are in league with the beasts!"

Just then the violin music stopped as witches maneuvered to form a row hovering some fifty feet above Romeo drive. The broomstick in the center appeared to have a small passenger sitting behind its weird pilot. A group of five witches maneuvered into a pentagonal formation framing him and illuminating him with their lanterns. Rapunzel gasped when she realized it was none other than Rumpelstiltskin himself, his white finery and powdered wig contrasting starkly with the dark-clad squadron. She lowered the skillet as she stared up at the sight.

The imp was holding a golden violin, which he placed in the broomstick's cauldron and then from it pulled out a bullhorn – literally the hollow horn of a bull with its tip sawed off. He then hopped up into a standing position on the broomstick, a move that caused Rapunzel to gasp, but he seemed to stand in perfect, nimble balance as he brought the small end of the bullhorn to his lips.

"Citizens!" he said, although his voice was little louder than normal. He lowered the bullhorn and frowning at it said, "Is this thing on?" He whacked at it a few times with his hand, and eventually a few magical sparks flittered from out its larger end. He smiled, held the small end to his mouth again, and began speaking, this time his voice enhanced so that all throughout the town could make out his words.

"Citizens! I fear that our fine kingdom has become the target of a campaign of terror waged by a horde of vile, savage beasts. Ogres, my friends! We've all heard horror stories about them, grown up being taught to distrust and fear them. Odd looking, green-skinned interlopers who would devastate our homes and threaten our loved ones. Meddling oafs who stick their noses where they don't belong, destroying our businesses and ruining our lives—"

Rumpel had become progressively more agitated as he delivered the last line; even the witch on the same broomstick turned around and looked up at him questioningly. Rumpel paused. "Ahem," he said awkwardly, "just for some examples." He then cleared his throat and continued with more self-control, "Excuse me if I seem a bit emotional, but…I just care so awful lot about this kingdom." He sniffed a bit and wiped at an eye. "But now," he continued with harder voice, "these creatures have gone too far! Now instead of lurking in their lairs amidst the swaps and deep forests where they belong, they have brazenly set their faces against us…"

The imp went on for several minutes, slowly enthralling his frightened and angry listeners, giving them a target against which they could focus those emotions. As he went on, Rapunzel could hear more and more shouts of agreement from voices around her. She pulled her eyes from the surreal sight of the floating imp to the street around her. The mist had all but gone, and she could see that citizens of all classes had come out and were lining the street, staring up at Rumpelstiltskin. She noticed that some citizens were brandishing torches or pitchforks, and every so often someone would step away, only to return a few moments later with some such instrument. With every emotionally charged note that the imp struck, they would raise their torch or pitchfork or fist as they bellowed their accord. Eventually the princess looked back up at the mesmerizing orator.

After one particularly emotional point during which Rumpelstiltskin stamped his food, causing the broomstick to bob for a few seconds and which provoked a particularly enthusiastic round of shouts from his listeners, he took a deep breath and motioned for the crowd – more a mob now – to calm down. "My people," he said. "I see that many of you have armed yourselves. This is not a bad idea – eternal vigilance _is_ the price of liberty. And I just apologize that our supposed protectors failed you so badly tonight—"

"That's not fair," the soldier before the princesses said. "Just before the ogres arrived, I felt this strange sensation that—"

"Shut up, loser," Rapunzel said.

"My name is 'Dirk', m'lady," the soldier said humbly.

"Whatever," Rapunzel quipped, trying to concentrate on Rumpelstiltskin as he continued.

"I must beg your forgiveness for continuing to entrust your lives and livelihoods to the conventional forces put in place by my predecessor," Rumpel said. "But we have learned from this. For in our hour of dire peril, new heroes have selflessly come to our aid. These witches you see around you –" here he made an open gesture with his free arm to indicate the hovering hags "– despite being mocked, persecuted, and shunned – rallied of their own accord to come to the aid of their fellow Far Far Awayans, driving the villains back into the darkness whence they belong. I think they deserve our gratitude."

Rumpel stopped speaking as he stood there, and lifted his other arm so that this gesture taking in the witches was accentuated. There was an awkward silence for a few moments. Rapunzel looked around her again, and saw that some of the citizens had also started looking around at and in many cases murmuring with each other. Then someone shouted, "Three cheers for the witches! Hip, hip…" And then some dozen voices in unison shout "Hooray!" Another "hip, hip", followed by even more voices shouting, "Hooray!" Then a third "hip, hip" followed by a resounding chorus shouting "Hooray!" Then the crowd burst into cheers and applause. Rapunzel looked back up to the sky. Most of the witches' expressions remained stoic or in some cases grimacing, but some betrayed traces of true emotion at actually being cheered. In one case the princess thought she could make out a glistening tear drop from one of the witches' eyes – which was unfortunate as it burned a small canal down her cheek.

"Well, what do you know!" Beauty said. "Who would have expected to be rescued by a bunch of witches? I guess it's true what they say. You know, that you shouldn't judge people before you get to know them."

"Mmmm," Rapunzel mumbled as she tried to pay attention to Rumpelstiltskin, who had brought the bullhorn back to his mouth and was about to begin speaking again.

"I think it's safe to say that from this night forward, we should all put our faith in our new protectors, the Crones' Coven Calvary Patrol, or CCCP for short. I promise you that with their help, we will keep our fair kingdom safe from ogre attacks in the future, and will round up any such beasts that might dare trespass upon our cherished land in the future!"

There was another great round of applause. Beside her, Beauty screamed enthusiastically as she clapped, then pumped her fist in the air and barked "Woof! Woof! Woof!" Rapunzel dropped the skillet and began applauding as well. From just in front of her, Dirk just drooped his head in shame.

Above them all, Rumpelstiltskin lowered the bullhorn and smiled down contentedly.

* * *

Yu's band of mounted raiders, most of whom bore sacks of loot slung across their steeds' backs, waited in a clearing in the forest. He scanned the group with his cool eyes. All were accounted for, not that he had really anticipated that the pathetic resistance of the townspeople or the mock assault by the witches would have cost him the life of any of his stalwart men. If it had in the case of the former, he would have had to break his vow not to take any of the townspeople's lives. In the case of the latter, the coming meeting would end nearly as bloody as if the imp were to betray him.

A soft, gentle whoosh of displaced air, nearly inaudible to most ears, caught his attention and he looked up to see the band of witches gliding in just above treetop level, their lamps extinguished, Rumpelstiltskin riding in on the back of the broomstick of the lead witch. When they reached the clearing they adroitly halted in the air and then drifted noiselessly straight downward. Rumpel hopped off his pilot's broomstick just before she touched down. The witches all landed about thirty feet from the raiders, and as they did so they stood fast as they took their brooms and held them at the ready, almost as if they were military. Yu couldn't help but chuckle at the absurdity.

"Ah, my friend, Shan Yu!" Rumpel said jovially, strutting forward to within ten feet of the mounted Hun. "You and your men did splendidly. And I see you've already started collecting your rewards!"

"Yes," Yu said humorlessly. "But that is nothing compared to the room of treasure you showed me earlier. As you said, that would be mine when we completed this charade."

"Ah, yes, about that," Rumpel said, appearing suddenly in distress. "You do recall the wording of the agreement was that all the kingdom's treasure in that room would become yours upon fulfillment of your raid—"

Yu's dark eyes narrowed and his hand tensed on the hilt of his sword. "You had best not say that you moved the treasure from that room and thus we aren't entitled to it."

Rumpel rolled his eyes. "Oh, please, General, don't think me so petty. Even if I did, I had already indicated that specific treasure, so you'd still be entitled to it even if we did. I am a stickler for details like that."

"Very well," Yu said, waiting for the imp to continue.

Rumpel did so. "However, that treasure is longer mine to give."

"_What?!_" Yu said.

"Again, I must honor the letter of the agreement, and that treasure became the private property of three Barons shortly before you fulfilled your raid. Thus it was no longer the kingdom's treasure at the time you did that. Do you follow?"

"Yes," Yu said in a low, ominous rumble. "You are attempting to swindle us." The men behind him started to murmur, which abruptly stopped when Yu raised a hand as he continued staring down at the creature before him.

"Now, please, there's no reason to throw unwarranted accusations about," Rumpel said. "It's just bad timing. Especially since, due to the untimely demise of those Barons, the treasure will forfeit back into my – I mean, the _kingdom's_ ownership at midnight, which is due momentarily. Unless their next of kin arrive to file a claim at the town revenue office before then. That's unlikely, however, since they live many miles away. And they haven't been told of the Barons' deaths. And…ahem…the revenue office was just burned down."

"So at midnight the treasure will become ours per the agreement," Yu said.

"No no no, please may attention," Rumpel said. "_At the time you performed the raid_ you became owner of all the kingdom's treasure that was in that room. But none of what was in that room was any longer the kingdom's treasure at that time. Whether it belonged to the kingdom before your raid or becomes so later is irrelevant. Do you understand?"

"Oh, I understand," Yu said, and drew his sword. "I need that treasure to finance my next campaign against the Han Empire. If I can't take that kingdom, then I'll take yours." Yu heard other swords being drawn by his men behind him.

Yu would have expected the imp to be cowering now. But instead, he began to chuckle. "Now, now, Shan – may I call you Shan? – I really don't see the need to resort to violence here."

"To the contrary. I do," Yu replied coldly. Then, indicating the witches, of number of whom did appear nervous, "And this time I don't expect your little coven to stop me."

"Oh, they might surprise you," Rumpel said. "But they don't really need to. I just need to release you."

Yu glared back at the imp. "_What?_"

"Release you," Rumpel repeated. "After all, I was the one that summoned you."

"What are you _talking_ about?"

Rumpel sighed, and then said in a surprisingly consoling tone, "Do you remember when I showed you the treasure earlier, when we made our deal?"

"Certainly! That's why—"

"Do you remember how you got there?"

"Of course! I—" Yu stopped. He tried searching his brain, but suddenly realized that he couldn't recall exactly _how_ he had gotten to that room – or into the castle – or into Rumpel's kingdom, for that matter.

Rumpel nodded, as if reading his mind. "What's the last thing that you _do_ remember?"

Yu thought hard. "I…I remember a girl…" he said. "And…fireworks…"

"Ah, would that were the last memory we all had!" Rumpel said, and laughed. He choked off the laugh as Yu stared daggers at him. Resuming his consoling tone, Rumpel explained, "Let me put this delicately Shan. You're… shall we say…um…oh, the heck with delicacy. You're dead, Shan. All your men are dead. You died in an avalanche. You know how Sun Tzu said, 'Regard your soldiers as your children, and they will follow you into the deepest valleys; look upon them as your own beloved sons, and they will stand by you even unto death?' Well, yours followed you even beyond that border."

Yu, dumbstruck, stared that the imp for a moment, then laughed himself. "Don't be absurd! Us, ghosts? We're as corporeal as you are!"

Rumpel smiled, and then turned to look at his witches. "He thinks there's only one type of ghost," he said, tilting his head back toward Yu. The witches began tittering amongst themselves.

"_Enough!_" Yu thundered, silencing the witches. As Rumpel turned back to face him Yu pointed his sword at the imp. "I tire at your poor jests, scoundrel. Now we shall—"

"Your determination to conquer was so great," Rumpel said, ignoring the threat, "that it survived even your demise. Tell me, since the avalanche, have you found yourself capable of performing any astounding physical feats that, even with your great strength, you weren't able to before then?"

Yu paused. He _did_ recall just such abilities, such as splitting whole pillars with one swipe of his sword. He wondered why he hadn't consciously noticed that before.

"Ever get the urge to surprise someone and say, 'boo'?" Rumpel added with a little smile.

Yu shook his head as he tried to clear the confusion. "Enough nonsense," he said. "We demand our reward!"

"Oh, you shall get it," Rumpel said. "Right now." From somewhere in town, bells started chiming midnight. "Ah," Rumpel said, "the witching hour! And to commemorate that –" he clapped his hands and said, "I release you!"

Yu suddenly felt light-headed. Below him, his horse whinnied urgently, and then began dissolving into a dark cloud which quickly began losing its coherence. Yu heard gasps and cries from his men, and then turned to see that they were also dissolving into elongated, mist-like forms. He then looked down at himself to see that he was beginning to do the same. He reflexively released his sword, but instead of clattering to the ground it too dissolved. His vision then began growing increasingly blurry, and then off in the distance a tunnel of light suddenly appeared. Yu felt himself being drawn to it, sucked toward it. His last discernable sight was that of Rumpelstiltskin smiling up at him as he floated above and past the imp. "A curse upon you, Stilkskin!" Yu said, his words drawn out and unearthly. "_A cuuuurssssssse!_"

"Yeah, yeah, get in line," Rumpel said as he watched the now spectral forms disappearing into the light, which then closed behind them. "Ah, there goes the wraith of Shan!" Rumpel joked. He then turned back and looked at the various bags of loot on the ground which had fallen from the Hun as they lost their corporeal forms. "Sorry General," he mused, "I guess it's true what they say – you can't take it with, Yu!" Then he quickly turned to the witches. "_Baba!_"

"Ga'ah!" Baba sputtered, snapping to attention.

"You and the others gather all this and take it to the castle…discretely."

"Yessir!" she said.

"Excuse me," Griselda said, stepping forward. "Something doesn't make sense to me, and I have a couple of questions."

Rumpel cocked an eyebrow curiously. He glanced over at Baba, who seemed to be trying to shoot her fellow witch a warning look. He smiled, and then looked back at Griselda. This had been a good night, and he could afford to be indulgent. "Go on," he said.

"Why ogres?" she asked. "I mean, why bother with the spell making the people see them as ogres? Wouldn't rampaging Huns be frightening enough?"

"Ah, yes, why ogres," Rumpel said wistfully. "One reason is, when you're frightening your people and dehumanizing the enemy, it helps if the enemy is already inhuman. Since the townspeople aren't that versed in the nature and habits of ogres, it'll be easier to keep them afraid of some monster appearing at any time, and anywhere. But more than that, I find it personally satisfying in a way I don't expect you to understand."

"Then why didn't we just enchant some real ogres and send them into town?"

"Because unless there's an ogrid wedding or funeral it's devilishly hard to find more than a couple of ogres together, and so it would've taken too long to gather a decent sized horde. They're stubbornly solitary creatures. Plus, an ogre on a rampage might do a lot of bluster and roaring, but they wouldn't have been as thorough, enthusiastic, and convincing when damaging property or gathering loot as these guys were. Ogres have an instinctive aversion to unbridled materialism that is positively sickening."

Rumpel paused to take a breath, and then added thoughtfully, "And there is one other reason. The reason we are here today. Shrek. Whenever he arrives, he'll soon figure out something's amiss, and he's going to be one dangerously unsatisfied customer. So I don't want him to find any friends in this kingdom that he might turn into allies. I want the people to fear and despise ogres so much that the sight of any one will drive them to us for protection. And in turn they'll be less critical of us in how we run the kingdom as long as we _provide_ that protection. After all, people who won't give up essential liberty in exchange for safety deserve neither liberty nor safety. Also, I want every ogre in this kingdom ferreted out, captured, and brought to me until we find Shrek. With Fiona dead he can't break the spell, but being stripped of all he holds dear and with nothing to lose he might – well, let's just say we wouldn't want the poor fellow to do anything that I might regret, now would we?"

"Oh, no, I suppose not," Griselda said. She began to turn away, but then turned back. "But if we persecute ogres as a group, what happens if they group together against us? Couldn't they be dangerous?"

"Ogres? Grouping together into, what, an army?" Rumpel said, and laughed. "That's stuff of legend. Maybe in ages past, but ogres today, as individualistic, stubborn, and self-absorbed as they are? These guys are self-reliance and rugged individualism run amok! Trying to form them into a disciplined army? Hah! It would be easier herding cats. What ogre today could possibly even _begin_ such a task? Who?"


	21. Getting to Know Them

**Layer 21: Getting to Know Them**

Fiona was trapped. No matter how long she considered her situation or from what angle, it was obvious she was doomed. No escape, and no way to effectively strike back. Still she stubbornly considered her situation for a while longer with occasional grumbles of frustration until eventually she sighed and took the only reasonable action left; she reached forward and laid her own king on its side. "I resign…_again_," she mumbled.

Moyre smirked from her seat on the other side of the table across the chessboard. "Yeh could've done that a couple'ah moves ago, y'know," she said.

Fiona, in human form as it was late afternoon, shrugged. "Call me obstinate," she said.

"That's the ogre in yeh," Moyre said with a touch of smugness.

"Ogres hardly have a monopoly on obstinacy," Fiona noted.

"No, but we've perfected it."

Fiona smiled wryly.

"Not that there's anything wrong with that," Moyre said. "Sometimes, when you're up against it, a little stubbornness can be a good thing. It might get yeh through some tough situations where others would just chuck it. And when you're an ogre, a lotta times yeh find yourself in tough situations."

"Hmmm," Fiona muttered as she dejectedly rested her cheeks on her hands and her elbows on the table as she studied the board before her. She was wearing one of Moyre's dresses, given to her when she was in ogress form, taken in a bit (she was surprised she'd have to do that with _any_ dress), and which had shrunk along with her when she turned human.

"You don't play right," Fiona said.

Moyre's brow furrowed. "Are yeh accusing me'ah _cheating?_"

"Oh, no, no, not that!" Fiona said. "But…from all that I read, all the accepted strategies…neither you nor Groyl play the way they say to. You're just so…_unconventional_. It just throws off expectations. But somehow you succeed."

Moyre smiled. "Now you're touching upon what it means t'be an ogre."

Fiona returned the smile as she continued studying the board, trying to determine where she went wrong. Funny, she would have thought that chess would be so beyond the abilities of 'stupid' ogres, and that actually _losing_ to one would be so embarrassing. Well, at first it _was_ embarrassing, and humbling. But the more time she spent with these two – and she had been here a week now – the more she realized that her assessment may have been a bit rash, and maybe even…ignorant. Well, at least in regards to _these_ two. Perhaps they were exceptional.

Moyre nodded to the corner of the board where Fiona's king lay. "About three moves ago yeh should'ah sacrificed your knight to protect your castle," the ogress advised.

Fiona frowned. "Enough knights have been sacrificed for me and my castles," she said. Suddenly depressed, her eyes wandered to the shelf where the bottles of ale sat. "Um, do you mind if I—"

"Yeah, I do," Moyre snapped.

Fiona's eyebrows raised in surprise.

"Yeh don't wanna get dependent on that stuff," Moyre said.

"I'm not getting dependent," Fiona objected. "It just makes me feel better when…um…"

"When you're feeling sorry for yourself?"

Fiona blushed. "I wouldn't put it _that_ way," she pouted.

"_I_ would," Moyre said. "But yeh know what? Get too used to turning to drink to drown your problems and the next day when yeh wake up yeh find your old problems are still there waiting for yeh, and now you've got a new one."

Fiona realized that she must have been looking chastised, for Moyre's expression softened; Moyre let out a breath, and then said, "Trust me. _I know_. After we lost the child, I…well, I went through a tough patch. I thought the ale would help. T'make a long story short, it didn't."

Fiona was surprised to see Moyre blush herself. She reached over and laid a dainty human hand atop Moyre's large, rough, green one. "I'm sorry," she said. "Did _anything_ help?"

Just then Groyl came clomping into the room from a recent, raggedly cut doorway. In one hand he held a nearly empty wooden bucket of daubing, and there were a few grayish patches of dried daubing on his clothes and one on his cheek. He smiled grandly at the two females.

Moyre smiled at Fiona and, jerking her head toward Groyl, said, "_That_ did." Fiona chuckled.

Groyl's smile faltered. "I did what?" he asked.

"Nothing, dearie," Moyre said. "Now, why were yeh grinning like the cat that ate the swamp rat?"

Groyl's smile returned. "Because the work is finished," he answered. Then turning to Fiona and giving an awkward mock bow, he said, "The princess suite is ready for inspection, Your Highness."

Fiona blushed. "Really, I don't know what to say. Again, I wish you two didn't go to such trouble—"

"Oh, shut up and get your puny pink bottom in there and tell the man what yeh think," Moyre said. Her tone was testy, but when Fiona glanced at her she saw that puckish glint in her eyes again.

Fiona couldn't help but smile. Then she sighed resignedly, stood up and walked over to Groyl, who was still holding his bow. "Thank you, kind sir," she said meekly, and curtseyed. As he straightened back up she turned toward the doorway and looked into the room.

The room was about the size of Moyre and Groyl's bedroom, and looked very nearly the same, right down to the generally oval, glassless window. It had no furniture yet, and the only items in it were some crude but effective construction tools and a couple of empty, daubing-lined buckets set in one corner. The room was framed by uneven, recently cut branches that the ogres had brought in from around the forest and hammered onto their own home. They had then put up a thatched roof and finished the walls with clay and sandstone daubing. All the materials were fresh – remarkably, they had only taken three days to build it – and even in her human form Fiona could smell all the freshness, particularly of the daubing.

"It'll need t'air out a day or so," Groyl said, as if reading her mind. "So you'll need t'bed out here one more night." He nodded toward a moss-stuffed mattress that lay against one wall. "Hope yeh don't mind."

"Mind? Not at all!" she said, turning to face Groyl. "As I said when I insisted that you two move back into your own bedroom, I'm fine out here. You've been so much more than kind, just taking me in. And to go to all the trouble to add an entire room—"

"Hey, you helped," he said.

"A little," Fiona humphed. Although the ogres had done the heavy work, Fiona had done what she could once her side had healed enough to allow her sufficient mobility. It had mostly been very light finishing work that didn't require much skill, or cleaning up, or performing menial household chores while the ogres did construction. "But you did all the hard work," she said. "And to alter your home for a stranger – maybe even risking danger to yourselves—"

"Ha!" Groyl chortled. "Princess, like I said b'fore, just _being_ an ogre is to live in danger. And also like I said, we don't abandon fellow ogres _in_ danger."

"But…I'm not a real ogre," Fiona said. And, oddly enough, she almost felt ashamed to say it.

"Tosh! You're real enough for us," Moyre chimed in from her seat. "And not just at night, either. I still say there's plenty'ah green underneath that squishy pink shell."

"If you say so, Moyre," Fiona said, smiling indulgently. "But thank you so much!" She moved to Groyl, leaned up on her toes and kissed him on his partially-shaven cheek. "Thank you."

"Ah, t'wernth a problem, Princess," he said, turning a slightly darker shade of green. "Gave an excuse for good exercise. And I've always wanted t'build a guestroom."

"Right, for your copious amount of guests," Fiona laughed.

"Hey, y'never know!" he said, and laughed as well.

Then Fiona turned and rushed over to Moyre. "And thank you, too!" she said, enveloping the ogress's form as best she could in a hug.

"Agh! Stop that!" Moyre objected, fighting the embrace – if only half-heartedly. "If yeh _really_ wanna thank me, get over to that cauldron and stir that stew, I think I smell it starting to burn."

"Oh, right," Fiona said, moving over to the fireplace and picking up a large spoon. "Heaven forbid we ruin it."

"Hey, you make fun of it _now_, now that y'know what's in it," Moyre said. "But yeh slurped it up fast enough _before_ then."

"I still eat it," Fiona said. Although, she had to admit, when Moyre had told her the ingredients after two days of such cuisine – all the time trying to keep from smiling at Fiona's reactions – the princess had felt a bit of revulsion. But it was more reactionary than heartfelt. At least Moyre had assured her that the stories Fiona had grown up with about ogres eating humans were just myths. "Although we don't go out of our way to debunk 'em," Moyre had added with a wink. "It helps keep the muggles away."

Following the culinary disclosure, although Fiona didn't at first eat with as much enthusiasm as before, she still ate. She tried to tell herself that it was a matter of being polite, but darn it, as much as her mind told her that she should be properly disgusted, the food _still_ tasted good to her. And, as the princess now glanced at the window as she stirred the pot, and noted the lengthening shadows, she reflected on how the last couple of evenings Moyre – despite her goading – had timed their meals to occur after sundown, as if being an ogre gave Fiona leave to enjoy things like the stew that she might be embarrassed to admit to as a human. Such a subtle, thoughtful nuance – not that Moyre would admit to it if Fiona directly asked her. These two – 'monsters' – continued to surprise and fascinate her with the unexpected depths and complexities of their characters.

A short while later, Fiona was helping with the last of the meal preparation, sparing more frequent and longer glances at the window as the sunlight progressively faded. All discernable rays were gone and the light remaining was from the warm glow that presaged sunset when Moyre, who had taken over stirring the pot, said, "Fiona, the stew's nearly done, why don't yeh set the table now?"

"Huh?" Fiona responded, somewhat startled as her head swung around to face Moyre. "Oh, um, just a moment… I just have to… I…"

Moyre glanced over at the window herself, and then back to Fiona. Stone-faced, she nodded.

"I'll be right back," Fiona blurted, and then rushed out the door and onto the unevenly-planked front porch. There she paused and took hold of one of the thick tree roots that were acting as a support column as she stared in the distance at the horizon, where the sun had just descended below the tree line.

She didn't know why, but she found she felt embarrassed at being in the presence of others when the transformation took her – even beings such as these who knew her secret – as if it were one of those personal private moments that decorum dictated occur alone. She almost laughed at the thought of linking decorum with ogredom, but whatever laugh was forming was quickly cut off as the glowing mist appeared and engulfed her, and she felt the pain of her body expanding and re-arranging yet again. She shut her eyes tight and waited. As she felt her ears reshape and lengthen, the ambient sounds of the swamp around her – the insect chirps, the bird songs and cawing, the splashing of fish, the rustle of the trees in the breeze – grew louder and crisper. She even heard the planks below her feet creak slightly in protest as her weight increased. And her wider nostrils and more sensitive olfactory sense picked up on so many of the smells and fragrances of life, from both plants and animals.

Fiona opened her eyes. One quick glance down the front of her body confirmed that she had resumed her familiar ogress shape. She signed resignedly, but then looked back up at the sky just above the tree line where the sun had just descended. It was a beautiful sight, with all its colors and hues, even when viewed as a human. But seeing it with the sharper vision of an ogre made it appear even more beautiful. And those ambient sounds from around the swamp, enhanced by her ogre hearing, made the entire clearing – the entire swamp – the entire _world_ seem more _alive_ somehow. It was as if she were tuned in to one great concerto of life sights, sounds and smells, one that was connected to her and to which she felt connected. She stood there, transfixed by it all, staring at the glorious colors from the sunset's wake, when she heard Groyl's voice behind her say, "Quite a view from out here."

Fiona gasped and turned to face him.

"Whoa, sorry!" he said, raising his arms palms forward. "Didn't mean to startle yeh."

"Oh! Oh…that's okay," Fiona said, relieved. Then she blushed. "I was just… well, caught up in all that…" she waived one arm toward the swamp and sunset panorama before them.

Groyl smiled and nodded. "I know what y'mean," he said. "Times like this…well, it's one of the reasons we ogres prefer t'live in swamps and forests. Well, that and keeping 'way from humans." Then his smile faded and his tone became a bit sterner. "Speaking of which," he said, "y'need t'be a wee bit more aware of things going on _all_ around yeh. I coulda' been anybody sneaking up behind. And when you're…well, like this…" he gestured at her corpulent green form, "It'd be easy for somebody t'mistake yeh for…um…"

A sad little smile played on her lips. "A _real_ ogre?" she suggested.

Groyl's smile resumed. "Again, you're real enough for us, lass," he said, reaching over and patting her shoulder reassuredly. "Now, come back in and eat. If yeh let it get cold, it gets less slimey."

Fiona couldn't help but laugh, which Groyl returned heartily as he opened the door for her. She began to go back inside, but then paused. "Why couldn't I smell you?" she asked. "Your odor is…well…"

"Distinctive?" he suggestive, and winked.

She chuckled. "For lack of a better word," she said.

"Standing here, I was a bit downwind of yeh," he explained.

"Oh!" she said. "I didn't notice."

"One'ah the things you'll need t'learn," he said. "Don't worry, we'll teach yeh."

"But you've done so much already!" she protested. "Besides, it would all go to waste once this spell breaks."

"Yeh planning on it breaking any time soon?" he asked.

"Well…um…" Fiona sighed. "It doesn't appear so."

"You have any pressing engagements? Courts to hold? Balls to attend?"

She laughed. "Not presently," she said.

"Good! We're not too busy either." He gestured to the open doorway and gave another mock bow. "M'lady."

Fiona laughed again as she crossed the threshold back into the welcoming odor of her new home.


End file.
